The Last Moonchild (BTS)
by stofferz
Summary: Taekook vampire AU, world building, plot-driven romance, elements of: soul bonding, mystery, drama "Two voices cut through the silence of the night. They're far away, but coming closer. And this unnerves him, because he'd rather no one come across him as he is now..." "...Fate is inescapable, he thinks. The voices draw nearer."
1. Chapter 1

guess whos back? back again. shady's back, tell a friend. lmaoooo i dont think anyone remembers/knows me but uh, it's been a minute since i was on ffn.

pls nobody read my old stuff, but if u do... try not to clown me too hard. lol rip

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The silence sits so heavy on his chest that the pressure under its solid weight manages to raise him from a deep sleep.

Very slowly, he wakes to find a vast, unending sea of silence. Unmoored and adrift in this quiet, he needs to anchor himself and so instinctively focuses his attention inwards. He hopes, thinks, this is where he'll find the steady and familiar rhythm of his heart and so searches for this marker of existence for an unknowable length of time. But it's to no avail.

Does he exist? Does he possess consciousness? There are no answers. There is nothing. Everything is oppressive silence.

That's his reality, and he may have remained there indefinitely, in nothingness and the uncertainty of his own self, but then a surprising impulse, some new and unknown instinct, forcibly stirs his mind into sharp lucidity. And then, all at once, he's reeling with intense fear and pain, both of which find a home in the center of his chest.

Is he dead and is this hell, he wonders.

What had previously been nothingness, unfolds before him then. He's able to grasp this reconfiguration and it allows him to realize that he's actually laying down in unbroken darkness and not nothingness.

It's a dark so deep that it swallows everything up. He feels small.

The strange impulse from before, the one that had harshly thrust him into lucidity, continues to grow stronger still. And to his dismay, the fear and pain he feels in his chest grow along with it. Despite this, or maybe because of it, he's urged into action and so attempts to sit up, but then quickly realizes that he can't and so goes into a frenzy. His hands, possessed by panic, begin slapping against the hard surface that surrounds him, frenetically mapping out the darkness which cages him, until he's discovered the exact boundaries of his enclosure.

It's small.

He writhes against the walls around him, but he has very little space to move. It's pitch black and deathly quiet.

Relentless waves of panic begin to come over him. His head is spinning, drowning with each subsequent submersion and he's beginning to fear that he might lose his mind. Feeding off of this tumultuous energy, the strange impulse, again, grows stronger. Rocked by unabated panic, it doesn't stop growing until it's pushed him out of his own mind. Everything quiets.

Again, he wakes.

He's idly aware as he comes back to himself, but it takes some time before he's really, fully conscious. As before, his lucidity comes accompanied by fear and pain, though this time their respective intensities are stronger. These two forces, gripping his chest in equal measure, are enough to force a broken cry from his throat. Startled by the noise, he realizes the silence is gone.

A cacophony of sounds erupt in his ears then, each louder and more intrusive than the last. And he realizes, with some confusion, that the silence had been within him, not out in the world. Whatever barrier had isolated him is gone now.

But it's too much, the world is too harsh. Without the barrier, his senses accost him with an overwhelming amount of information and he can't make sense of anything.

He wants it to stop, but he doesn't know how. The best he can do, he finds, is try to focus on one thing at a time. So, he chooses to hone in on the deep chill that's permeating the length of his body. Eventually, he's able to make out that he's lying face-down and that his left cheek is pressed against a cold, wet floor.

Opening his eyes is difficult. His lids are heavy, glued together like on an early morning after not enough sleep. With enough willpower though, he's eventually able to open his eyes and take in the outside world. His vision is blurry, at first, so he spends some moments sluggishly blinking and his sight sharpens with a nice clarity. But it keeps going. His sight keeps on sharpening and sharpening and then it's too sharp. Detail is everywhere and his eyes are trying to take all of it in.

Over a few short moments, his world has gone from blurry to an incomprehensible kaleidoscope of detail and color. Made sick by this visual assault, he closes his eyes again.

He clutches blindly at the ground beneath him and his palms close over wet blades of grass. Soaked and cold, he pushes himself up to standing. Then, as he's stood shaking like a leaf, he has to fight an internal battle in order to remain that way. Because part of him, a loud part, wants to buckle at the knees. For a few moments, he has to listen to a reedy voice in his head as it begs him to fold up as small as possible back on the grass.

He's never thought of himself as a coward, so it surprises him how difficult it is to reign in the urge to cower on the floor. He succeeds, eventually, even if only just barely. It takes him another moment though to find the courage to open his eyes again.

The ensuing kaleidoscope, the one he'd glimpsed before, is just as blinding, if not more so, than not having sight at all. The world is a magic eye, but he can't see the figure it's hiding. And without being able to see his surroundings, he feels vulnerable. So, it's this fear of the unknown that drives him, forces him to persevere until he finally finds a way to distinguish individual shapes and figures. Then, once able to make sense of the world around him, he realizes two things.

One: it's night. And two: he's standing in a graveyard.

At least, that's what his eyes are telling him, but truthfully he isn't sure if anything is real. And so, he has to wonder if he's ever had a nightmare as strange as this before. But then if this is a dream, when had he fallen asleep?

He finds that he can't remember a lot right now.

Feeling oddly detached, his eyes lazily trace over the tombstones before him and then he turns slowly, so that he can look at the ones behind him. His eyes catch on one in particular, though its appearance isn't outwardly special. It's a simple, flat headstone.

Its image comes in and out of focus, as he stares at it for a few moments.

The little headstone has been placed recently. Or so, it seems to him that way, because its respective plot is all freshly overturned earth that hasn't yet had the chance to be covered by grass like an older grave might be. He also notes that it's messy. Dirt has spilled over onto the plots next to it. And when he looks closer, he sees that some of the dirt even covers part of the headstone, obscuring the engraved name and dates on it.

The little rectangle sits quietly in the distance, facing the night sky. Shrouded by disturbed earth, its engraving remains a mystery to him. And though it is thinly veiled, he doesn't care enough to investigate it.

A queasy dread begins to grow in the pit of his belly then, so he turns away from the grave.

He looks at the night sky.

A gentle rhythm makes itself known then. It beats in time with the pulse of a far-away star he's looking at. It's a staccato song he's familiar with, one that's found its rightful home at last. Though now, it shares that space with a burgeoning pain that has yet to cease within his chest.

Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum, it goes.

Without meaning to, he fixates on it and his skull becomes like a bell tower, where the steady beat resonates thunderously.

Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum.

He should feel light, relieved, but instead his chest is tight like it's going to burst and he doesn't understand why.

It wasn't so long ago that he'd been desperately seeking out this steady rhythm. And now he's scared by it.

His heart skips a beat.

Ba dum, it pauses. Ba dum, ba dum, it starts back again, faster.

The beat of his heart morphs into something disconcerting, something unfamiliar. In its rush to go faster still, it skips another beat and he gasps.

Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum, it hammers. Each beat is a rapid blow that drives him down like a nail, securing him deeply, firmly into place, and though at some point, he'd wanted nothing more than to feel anchored, he would take it all back if he'd known it'd be to a nightmare.

This is real, he thinks. I'm alive.

But everything is happening too fast and he doesn't understand what's was going on.

He's alone.

He's scared.

Another frenzy bubbles rapidly up within him. Its momentum is too great to stop and soon it's a gaseous, fizzing mess in his mind. Inside his head, it crackles, static-like and a noxious cloud forms, growing denser with each burst of bubble. This pressure builds, until his head is threatening to explode.

He staggers forward and without consciously deciding to, begins to run. He's sprinting in the next moment and his mind begins to clear, so he runs harder.

But if he's learned anything in his 23 years of life, it's that it's impossible to outrun what lies within. So he isn't surprised when everything fades to dark.

When he's cognizant again, he finds himself in a city.

Between the harsh in and out of his breath, there's the flutter of tiny wings overhead, dozens and dozens of tiny wings. The thrum of their gentle beating is strange and underscored by an electric buzz.

He's on an empty street, standing in the center of a lone cone of light.

Awash in an orange glow, this is where he slowly comes to. Why he'd stopped under a light pole, he isn't sure, but he's here now and that's what he'll focus on.

So what now, he wonders.

A moth flies by. It loops around him several times, then swoops around just a short distance in front of his face. He follows its erratic dance. And as he's watching the moth, it idly occurs to him that the night won't stretch on indefinitely. The sun will rise.

This fact of life impresses on him in a way he's never experienced before.

The moth flies back up towards the light. No longer occupied by its presence, his senses expand beyond it and in the distance he hears that there are people. Some of them are young and drunk, out prowling the streets at night. There are others too, quieter ones: the vagabond and destitute, folks who're just trying to survive the night. And still others, those asleep in their homes, those awake at their TV's. Curious of all these people, he listens to them for a few moments and ends up losing himself to their activities in the process. He's engrossed, listening to the small details of what their doing. And in this state of high focus, a perturbing thought occurs to him: there isn't anyone near enough to hear this clearly, and yet he can anyway.

His stomach churns, queasy from discovering this alien ability. Simultaneously, he feels an overwhelming urge to put distance between himself and any others.

He takes several hurried steps then stops. He doesn't know where to go.

But like a leaf finds a path in the wind, eventually, he too is carried along by some force on a directionless path. It takes him away from his spot at the light pole. And for some time he wanders in the shadows.

As he walks, he maintains rapt attention on the sky, watching it closely. And with each passing moment, he grows steadily more obsessed by its hue. When the sky finally goes from a deep black to a dark blue, he's seized, entirely overwhelmed, by a sudden urge to cry. And so, his eyes begin to pour and his sight goes blurry for a while.

When he goes to wipe his face, he finds that his tears are bloody.

But the sky is indifferent to tears, even his bloody ones. It does not pause as he cries out in horror at his discovery or as he begins crying anew. Unfazed by any one person, it simply ambles through the hues and gradients of its liking.

It's still dark, but the sky is getting a little lighter each passing moment.

He needs to hide.

The stars are fading.

He needs to hide.

Dizzy with a sudden panic, he gives into thoughtless instinct and it guides him to a large dumpster in a remote alley. Without pausing to think, he climbs in and closes the plastic lid over himself. Then, sitting, situated snuggly amongst the trash, he feels a buzzing comfort radiate through him. For some time, he's delirious with this feeling. Then as the buzz quiets down into a low thrum, he realizes how pathetic this all is.

It seems more and more that it matters very little what he does or doesn't do, so he indulges in self-pity and sobs.

He knows exactly when dawn finally breaks, because it's announced by a quick and heavy heat. A stark change between two extremes, from one moment to the next, it's as though he's been thrown from a cooler into an oven.

The heat is disgustingly strong. It's amplifying the smell of garbage. And inside the dumpster, it's growing brighter as the sun climbs higher over the horizon. Small rays of light are finding their way in through the cracks and holes of the dumpster's old plastic lid. For reasons he can't explain, he's terrified by these wispy columns of light. And in an attempt to avoid them, he ends up partly buried in trash.

As the sun continues to rise, so too does the temperature. And he begins to feel sick. Surrounded by a putrid pungency, at first he just has nausea. But as the morning settles into day, a bubbling, just beneath the surface of his skin, begins to sting him. Then as the sun continues to rise, that bubbling turns into a deep, rapid boil and his insides begin to gurgle away like a hot, viscous soup.

The day progresses and the heat continues without reprieve.

At some point, his body, exhausted from endlessly enduring, begins to shake violently. For a moment, it's as if it's attempting to denature into a million ribbons, but, mercifully, the moment passes. It's as he's catching his breath, that he realizes it had been a convulsion. Still racked by slight tremors, he stutters out an anguished prayer with the hope that it'll never happen again.

But it happens again and then again. He's dizzy and confused after each attack ends. And every time, it takes him a just little longer to come back to himself, only for what little sense he regains, whatever he has left, to be cruelly stripped from him as it happens again. These episodes do not cease until the sun begins its descent.

Over the course of hours, the heat lessens and then it's cool again, as the sun slips underneath the horizon. Immediately, he wants to leave the dumpster, but his body trembles with exhaustion when he tries. Eventually, he gains enough strength from the desire to put distance between himself and the smell of garbage, and so he emerges into the night.

Stumbling out into the shadows, he takes to wandering the streets again and does much of what he'd done the night before. Shortly before sunrise, he returns to the dumpster again.

He's stuck repeating this cycle for several nights. Not long after sunset, he crawls out of the same putrid dumpster, swears to never return to it, and then returns to it all the same. Nothing changes, except that he grows considerably weaker with each passing night.

Naturally, there comes a night where he's reached his limit and as he's wandering, collapses. He doesn't pick himself back up, both because he's too weak and because he finds little reason to get up anyway.

He lays there and welcomes his fate. Water from a nearby puddle begins to soak into his hair.

Sharp, little rocks are digging into the side of his face. And a sudden scurrying makes him think that a small animal, perhaps a rat, has crawled over his leg, but he doesn't check to make sure. He doesn't find any of these things particularly uncomfortable or bothersome. It doesn't matter anyway.

He's so tired.

Time escapes his notice, as he listens to the night.

A sharp tug on the ever present ache in his chest, nearly stops his heart. Then, he feels it again.

It's pulling him, insistently, in one specific direction.

The urge to follow this pull is like the urge to surface for air after spending too much time submerged underwater. An oxygen-deprived brain doesn't stop to provide explanation, it just forces the body into action. Likewise, this pull doesn't come with any precursory thoughts. It's a primal need that, if he could, he'd act on without hesitation.

Something or someone is calling for him and he needs to answer, needs to be at its source.

His muscles twitch in effort, but they can't coordinate any movement. He can't get up, can't go after the call.

The tug on his pain shifts then and he realizes that must mean the source of whatever beckons him is likely moving as well. He panics, begins to scramble crazily to try and move after it, but this simply wears him out further and so he has to give it up. It's useless, he useless. A sad, silent observant, he can do nothing, so he simply feels as the source of the pull moves further away from him.

The pull gets weaker as the distance increases. And as it's fading, a strangled cry gets caught in his throat, but he's too weak to dislodge it. He can't call out.

In a deep dismay, it wildly occurs to him to try and pull back on the tug. But by then it's already too late. The pull's source is too far away.

A few, short moments later he has ceased to feel it altogether.

He's left feeling hollow and strangely worthless. Abandoned.

As he lays there in a despondent fog, he wonders what will become of him. And then he thinks, dawn is coming, and immediately has to stop there, because he doesn't want to know what'll happen when the sun rises. His mind quiets and goes blank.

Two voices cut through the silence of the night.

They're far away, but coming closer. And this unnerves him, because he'd rather no one come across him as he is now. But he knows that life isn't governed by his wishes. And so they may discover him, but it's just as well that they may never cross paths either.

He can't move, has no power to affect the outcome. This situation is out of his hands.

Fate is inescapable, he thinks.

The voices draw nearer.

He hears a man say, "Yea, but what's important is done. Why would we need to even bother with this? And it's almost sunrise!" Their voice had risen considerably in volume, so they pause. Then, in a level tone, the same man continues speaking, "This is a waste of time, especially with everything else going on."

"Fuck, I didn't think of any of that," another man replies to the first. "I can't believe none of that occured to me. You're really smart, you know?"

"Now you're just being a dick, Yoongi."

At some point in their conversation, the two men had stopped moving. He thinks they're stood somewhere not too far from him.

The men are quiet, until one of them sighs, then says, "Look, I know you think this is a waste of time; I don't disagree with you." They pause and then add, "Even if he won't share his reasons with us, he has to have them."

He's a little foggy right now, so he's not so sure, but that person hadn't sounded particularly convinced of his own words.

The man continues speaking, "I'll talk with the leader. He'll either have Hoseok come out or come here himself, but someone will help you cover ground. And it'll get done as quickly as possible, but until then, you're on your own. Orders are orders."

"I know." the other responds sharply. "Forgive me, though, if I'm not very eager," they add. A sharp silence follows afterwards.

He wishes he could see them then. People express so much with their body, on occasion, it can even be more than what they do with words.

Then, something about or around the men changes abruptly, though he can't explain how.

"What's taking so long?" someone asks and bells, numerous sweet, metallic clangs resonate throughout his pained body in response. He trembles with their harmonic force.

A third person has joined the other two.

It's another man. But he isn't just any man, because, though he'd heard but a few scant words, they'd been lustrous, gilded in gold. And his body hums with the memory of their resonance and the sweet force that he imagines only this voice could ever carry.

The essence of this dulcet force hints at something intangible in its owner and creates a deep, immediate yearning within him. And again, he feels a strong pull. However, this pull is distinctly different from the one he'd felt before.

The first pull he'd experienced was compulsory in nature. In fact, had he not been so weak, he might have followed it without even realizing. This pull isn't so straightforward, so simple to follow. It's a messy thing where it sits in his chest, like it itself doesn't understand what's happening. It's uncomfortably intense, half-formed, and without clear direction.

But even so, its impetus is intoxicatingly demanding and he wants to give into it, allow it to pull him in.

A single, falling raindrop is fated to find its way into the ocean. He wonders if this yearning within him is at all alike to the force that drives rainwater home.

Simultaneously though, something within him is recoiling harshly at the notion that someone's voice could have such an effect over him. It's horrifying, he thinks, that a few words could render him powerless and entranced. And in an attempt to preserve what little dignity he has left, he rationalizes that it's his current state which has made him weak to cling to anything remotely pleasant.

Circumstances notwithstanding though, a complete lack of self-possession, he thinks, is the lowest he can fall.

And so he feels humiliated, betrayed by the intensity of a desire he has no way of owning. Worse, he believes these feelings stems from desperation. And now he just wants it all to stop.

It'd be nice, he thinks, if he could just disappear into the disparate winds of the Earth, vanish like strewn dust.

He's very tired.

Someone clears their throat. The three men haven't left yet.

"Sorry, someone was being fussy about their orders," one of them says in a bored tone, adding, "I was about to head your way, so if you please, I'm at your service now."

It's clear they're speaking to that man.

The person's words hang, suspended awkwardly in the air for a moment. And then, they clear their throat again. "Or, if you wish, we could help search. I believe there's time enough before the assembly. Jimin hasn't even started looking—" They're interrupted.

"—I've just received the orders! And, I was told to prioritize the areas immediately surrounding the burial site. There's days worth of ground to cover before the search even extends out here."

There's a slight pause, before the one who'd been interrupted picks back up again, speaking like nothing had been said. "It's unlikely that it's here, but who knows? We might get lucky and find the prize." The word "prize" sounds like a taunt.

The third man doesn't respond. It's deathly quiet after that. They leave.

And he knows they've left, because the pull that voice had inspired fades. Unlike the first time though, this one exists abruptly. One moment it's there and in the next, he's just hollow again. And his heart fills with hurt, with a sadness that's more akin to the pain of rejection.

He doesn't think about it.

He's faced-down, so he can't see the sky, but he knows exactly when the first stars begin to melt into the backdrop of the heavens, because a swell of heat begins to unravel within him. This swell grows, spreading like wildfire inside his body.

In this fire's wake comes pain that's unlike anything he's ever known before.

The pain he'd experienced while hiding in his dumpster had been like a thick, bubbling honey beneath his skin. This is nothing like that. This feels like his insides have set ablaze in hellfire. A hellfire that's ferociously fighting to consume him, but can't, because it's trapped within him, and so just rages hotter in frustration.

Were he able to, he'd cut, split himself all the way open so that these trapped flames might be able to escape.

Delirious, a memory or a stray thought, or neither, because it's all the same now, comes to him and he latches onto it. It's nebulous and nonsensical, but in his delirium, he believes it's a message. And so he watches, enraptured, as the luster of brilliant gold flickers in his mind's eye, then as it mutates, waxing and waning, until it takes the shape of a flame. Its metallic shimmer sits amongst the flames of the hellfire within him, but does not burn like all the others. Its presence is both reproachful and imploring, as if he's close to breaking a vow.

The fire grows, the golden flame gets lost in its uproar. He wants to die.

Someone is speaking. Their words filter idly into his head.

"I've come into the city, but I'm not sure where or what exactly you're doing."

"Jimin, wasting time is a luxury we can't afford, so I'd kindly appreciate it if you could get back to me quickly."

"The sun's been up for some hours now, so unless you call back soon, I'm just going to head to a safehouse for some sleep."

He half wonders if he's just imagined everything he's heard, but then the man who'd spoken takes a couple slow and aimless steps in one direction, and he thinks he wouldn't imagine something so inconsequential.

He's starting to grow numb.

He relaxes, hoping this is it. And it is, because a short moment later, he's drifting, falling steadily away into nothingness.

He's falling.

Falling.

Falling.

There's a steady approach of footsteps.

That doesn't matter, he's very nearly there.

More steps. They're louder now. They keep coming closer, getting louder, until each step is a thunderous pound in his ears and they've managed to destroy the peace of his quiet nothingness.

All at once, he's harshly ripped away from the dark he'd been lulling into and dragged back into fire.

The sweet peace of death had been right there and he'd failed to reach it.

A particularly nasty lick of flame sears angrily at his heart then and the pain is so intense, he sees a bright flash of gold behind his closed eyes. It passes very quickly.

He hears the man continue to approach and then he's stood at the mouth of the alley that he'd collapsed in.

"Woah, that's rough," the man says, quietly, as though speaking to himself.

"Someone must have spotted you as they passed," he adds, as he begins walking towards him. But halfway through, his advance stops, so he can sigh, long-suffering and philosophical. "But, like us, Humans also have a great capacity to be cruel."

Then the man resumes walking in his direction, until he's standing over his prone body, at which point, he yells, "Oh, shit!" And then he quickly crouches down beside him and turns him over, so that he's lying on his back.

"Fuck, I thought you were a Human," the man says in a pinched voice. His hands are flurrying all over his face, chest and neck, as if checking him over. "How did you end up like this?"

The man should know he's not receiving an answer, he thinks. And the man must realize this, because he doesn't press him any further.

But then, against wishes he isn't able to voice, the man begins to wrap him in what might be a large jacket. And around his face and head, the man places something soft and loose over him. Covered by this layer of clothes, the pain dulls by a small, but blessed, fraction.

He'd cry in relief, if he could.

The man lifts him into his arms and for a moment he's dizzy. Then the air around them shifts, as if they'd taken flight.

Maybe he could be a sparrow in his next life, he muses. Just a small, weightless bird, free to fly, free from pain.

And as he's thinking of this, indulging in fantasy, he begins to drift away again. A calm takes hold of him. He can see it now, feel it now. There's wind beneath his wings and he's soaring.

"Hey! Hey!"

The rushing wind stops, he doesn't have wings. The man is yelling at him.

"God, you must be young," the man says, mournfully, and then carefully shifts him in his arms. "Just, try and stay with me. We're almost there."

Then the next thing he hears is the tail end of a heavy door closing. And not a full moment later, he's inside a dark room and the man is placing him gently on a bed.

The man is gone, long before he even realizes it.

In the dark of the room, the burning of flames goes away in increments. First leaving his fingers and toes, it then sinks back into his chest where it coils up into a tolerable and familiar ache.

Vaguely, he tries to remember what it was like not to hurt and finds that he can't.

It's quiet and he's alone, reeling with everything that's happened moments prior, days prior. He's given up on attempting to make sense of anything though, because he can't shake the feeling that he's become an observer to a life that had ceased being his own some time ago.

He hears the other man suddenly curse and he realizes he must be somewhere outside the dark room. He focuses on him and listens as he mumbles to himself. He thinks the man sounds conflicted.

When he hears the man start to make his way back, he's filled with an uneasy tension. But then there's a knock, a gentle tapping at the door. And somehow, this small gesture eases away some of the tension.

"How're you doing?" the man asks, as he enters the room.

He's too tired to speak. And it's a dumb question anyway, given the state he's in, so he doesn't reply.

He feels the air around him shift, telling him the man is at his side. "Here, let me take this off of you," he murmurs and then gently begins to remove the cloth that'd been wrapped around his head.

He'd forgotten it was even there, couldn't feel it anymore. In fact, beyond the ever present pain in his chest, he can't feel much. His body is numb all over.

The man tosses the soft fabric aside, letting him know his face is now free. But despite knowing the room is dark, he still hesitates to open his eyes. The man, thankfully, doesn't rush him or comment.

When he does open his eyes, the room isn't as dark as he'd expected. But he quickly notes that there aren't any significant sources of light either and that it's his eyes that are making it difficult to gauge how much light there is. This small, somewhat insignificant detail makes him feel strange.

On his right, the man is sat on the edge of the bed, nearly, but not actually, touching him. He's turned away, attending to something on a nightstand beside them, so he can't see his face.

When he does turn back around, the man grabs him by the shoulders and quickly, but gently, sits him up against the headboard and says, "Here, I'll help you drink." Distracted by the sudden action and confused by the man's words, he doesn't have the opportunity to properly look at his face.

It takes a second for what's been said to register with him, but when it does, he's infinitely glad to find the man is already tipping a glass of water against his lips. When moisture reaches his dry tongue, he's surprised to find that he's parched and begins to drink greedily.

He's drinking in large, uncomfortable gulps, too fast and undiscerning to notice the taste and texture of his drink right away.

Something here is wrong, he thinks, and continues drinking anyway.

Then the liquid he's drinking coagulates and begins to coat his throat and mouth in sticky globs. A strong, repulsive smell wafts up to him and he gags. Finally, the man removes the glass from his lips.

"Oh, this is bad," he hears the other say.

Grunting, he begins to expel what he's somehow managed to drink. Gelatinous globs cling to the corner of his lips, as his stomach heaves, and, angrily, he thinks "bad" doesn't begin to aptly describe the current situation.

There's a litany of quiet curses spilling from the man's mouth. He's patting him firmly on the back with one hand, while using the other to hold him upright. And when globs aren't spilling from his lips anymore, the man cleans his mouth and chin, using a sweater.

So that's what had been wrapped around his head.

"I know you're really weak right now," the man says suddenly, catching his attention, "but please, it's very important that you try to answer my questions."

Then he asks, "Who's your maker kid?"

The question confuses him and when he doesn't respond, the man grabs a hold of both his shoulders and shakes them lightly. "If I cannot find them soon, there's very little possibility that you will continue to live," he says in a severe tone, as he shakes him.

"Tell me your maker's name," he commands.

But it makes little difference how adamantly the man asks, if he doesn't know how to respond in the first place. And he doesn't have enough strength to both, ask the other what he means, as well as, also respond. So given the question, he settles on the most sensible response he can think to give.

"My m-mom" he says on an exhale. It's quieter than he'd intended, but somehow it seems the man has been able to understand him anyway, because, though he looks confused, he's also staring at him attentively, as though expecting he has more to say and he does.

It takes an extraordinary amount of effort, but he adds, "She died."

"What?"

He isn't going to repeat himself and he has nothing more to say.

The man sighs. "Ok, alright, plan B. Which lineage do you descend from?" he asks.

What a strange question, he thinks, and then shuts his eyes.

The man jostles him by his shoulders again. "No, no, no… Look at me. C'mon, hey. Lineage, which lineage-" He jostles him harder, when he refuses to open his eyes. "What's your, what's your name, your full name ?" There's a note of panic lacing the man's words.

Well, that he can answer.

"Kim Taehyung"

"Kim ?"

The man's response strikes him as unduly strange. But again, he isn't going to ask the man to explain himself and so he says nothing. In fact, he's very tired. He's done talking for now.

His eyes are closed. And he thinks that should make it pretty clear that he's trying to rest, but the man doesn't seem to care, and is, instead, yelling at him.

"Kim ?!"

"Kim Taehyung?!"

"Kim ?!"

Taehyung wonders how long it'll be before the man tires of yelling out his name. He wants to tell him to stop, especially because with each reiteration the man gives his shoulders a hard shake, but he doesn't have the strength in him to do so.

The man repeats his name several more times, before finally giving it up. "No, there's no way. I don't know you," he says, in a defeated tone. The grip on Taehyung's shoulders loosens.

"You're really a Kim?" the man asks. He sounds lost. "And, to be clear, you're a direct descendant and not Kim by association?"

"What am I even saying, you're a fledgling!"

Taehyung opens his eyes and his vision swims a little. It's difficult to focus, but nonetheless, he finds the man's face. He isn't sure of what anything the other is saying means, but his name is his name. He isn't lying about that. And so, he looks at the man and tries to express this with his eyes, but the man just looks back at him with doubt. And Taehyung knows then, that he does not believe or maybe cannot see the sincerity that he's attempting to convey.

But that's all Taehyung has left, the truth of his gaze. Whether the man believes him or not is of no consequence to that fact.

Taehyung closes his eyes again.

The man curses.

"I'm sorry if this doesn't work," he says ominously.

Taehyung thinks he hears the man leave the room, but then he also seems to be at his side in the next instant, which strikes him as impossible. He wonders if he's dozed off, but he has a feeling that he hasn't. He lets this matter go, distracted by the sudden rustle of clothes at his side. Curious, he forces his eyes open and sees that the man has rolled up the sleeve of his dress shirt.

Then the man takes a small knife to his left wrist and with a deep slash, breaks its thin skin once. It's done methodically and precise.

Taehyung stares at the man in silent horror.

Blood begins to spill from the man's cut and Taehyung's heart spikes up in a rapid beat. His eyes lock onto the gushing rivulets of ruby on the man's arm and his jaw clenches shut, painfully tense, at the sight. Tearing his eyes away, he looks back at the man and finds that he looks uncertain, afraid. And Taehyung doesn't understand why, because he'd been the one to do this. He'd self-mutilated. He'd chosen this.

Taehyung hasn't been afforded any choices to make for a long time now, so he despises anyone who would take theirs for granted. And perhaps, the man is able to see this in his eyes, because he appears to come to a decision then.

Resolute, he suddenly places his bloody wrist on Taehyung's lips and Taehyung turns a wide-eyed, muted scream in his direction.

The man forces his blood into Taehyung's mouth.

Repulsed by what is happening, Taehyung attempts to fight back. But before the thought has fully entered his mind, his mouth begins to suck eagerly on the other's wrist, as though it's a perfectly normal, autonomic response. And he tries to stop, but he can't even think, can't understand what's happening anymore. He's become consumed by a sudden desperation to fill his belly with the smooth flow and warmth of the other's blood.

The man's wrist moves and Taehyung latches onto it even more fiercely. When it moves again, it prompts Taehyung to sink his teeth into it in an attempt to secure it closer to himself.

The man is yelling at him.

After a small battle, the wrist is finally pulled harshly from Taehyung's lips and the man falls backwards off the side of the bed and onto the floor. The room fills with their harsh panting. Taehyung doesn't understand what's just happened.

But he wants more.

He's buzzing, like there's a million bees in his body. It's a strange sensation, but it's like life is seeping back into him. The incessant pain in his chest is fading, so he sits and quietly marvels at this feeling, overjoyed that it's even possible. Of course, this doesn't last very long.

His body pulses once and a sudden rigidity locks up his muscles. Then Taehyung's stomach lurches violently and he vomits.

"You're rejecting it," Taehyung hears the man say, through his own, loud heaving.

The man's laying on the floor, mumbling, half-incoherently, to himself. "I should have-known, or… should've been certain of your lineage, instead I…" Blood is seeping from the sheets, off the bed, and onto the man's body.

"I'm so sorry," the man says and then goes quiet, as Taehyung continues to heave.

Eventually, Taehyung's stomach settles and then he's just slumped, boneless, against the headboard. He's quiet and covered in a mess of drying, sticky blood. And for a while, he's just stuck in a daze, staring at a far wall, idly sorting through a few, errant thoughts in his head.

His body isn't buzzing anymore, but he still feels better than he has for a long time.

The man on the floor has been deathly silent for a while now. Taehyung wonders if he's fallen asleep.

"Do you have a bathroom?" he asks the man.

"…What?" So he isn't asleep, Taehyung notes.

"Bathroom, do you have one?" Taehyung asks again, looking embarrassedly at the mess he's made.

The man sits up off the floor. His eyes are wide. He stares at Taehyung without blinking for a few moments.

"Yea, I do. I have a bathroom," he says, with unnerving, unblinking eyes.

The man doesn't follow his words up with any indication of where this bathroom is. He just bores into Taehyung with round, blank eyes. Embarrassed by this attention and self-conscious of the fact that he's just vomited all over himself after spending a week hiding in a dumpster, Taehyung burrows his head into his right shoulder. His face grows hot with shame.

Abruptly, the man stands up. "Can you walk?" he asks Taehyung, who reluctantly turns to look at him, only to see that the man is swaying on his feet.

"Can you walk?" Taehyung asks instead, eyeing the man as he continues to sway. Ignoring his question, the man huffs out what may pass as a small laugh and then helps him stand. For as much as he'd swayed earlier, the man's still somehow stronger than Taehyung.

Then the man begins to guide him towards a door. It's a slow walk, because Taehyung can hardly manage a step on his own and so the man has to struggle to support most of his weight.

Taehyung's staring at the man's profile, watching as he struggles to carry him, when he's floored with the sudden sense that, even if he doesn't understand how, the man's intentions have always been good. Everything he's done, he's done in a genuine attempt to help him.

And Taehyung, well he's been nothing but a burden, really.

"Sorry," Taehyung says in a tiny voice. The man turns to look at him and they stop walking.

"Yea, that was rude," he says. He's looking at the dry blood on Taehyung's chin.

Taehyung doesn't quite know what "that" is that the man considers to be rude, but he nods in agreement anyway, because he had just thrown up all over this man's bed. He stares at the floor, ashamed. He wants to add onto his apology, because he doesn't think the man understands what all he's really trying to apologize for. But when he looks back up at the man, there's a hint of a smile evident in the set of his mouth and Taehyung thinks that, maybe, the man does know what he's trying to say.

"I'm kidding, I just never thought my first blood sharing would ever go this badly," he says and his lips stretch a little wider. "All's well that ends well, right?"

He doesn't know what to say, how to respond.

"Taehyung," the man says, when he stays silent for a beat too long, "there's nothing I can think of that you could begin to apologize for."

They start walking again.

When they enter the bathroom the fluorescent lights are flicked on and they momentarily blind Taehyung. But in this harsh light, he can see the other clearly for the first time and he's immediately shocked to realize that the man is young. He'd been under the impression the other was older, but he's about Taehyung's own age. And he's tall, a little taller than him. He has a careful gaze and sharp eyes that hint at an even sharper intellect. And those eyes are looking at Taehyung.

Under this sharp scrutiny, Taehyung's harshly reminded of his current state. So he ducks his head, embarrassed, and without thinking, blurts out, "May I shower? I smell like a dumpster."

Taehyung is then absolutely mortified when he hears the man sniff very, very lightly at the air. And for a moment, he stares down at his feet and internally debates whether crawling back into his grave is really such a bad idea.

"Yes, of course. Do you, uh," the man says, but then stops, hesitating for a moment. "Do you need me to help you?" he asks, while gesturing vaguely at Taehyung.

Taehyung takes a moment to swallow down enough of his embarrassment in order to politely decline. And then, he does his best to not drown in the ensuing embarrassment when he ends up needing help anyway, first to undress and then to get into the shower.

"I'll bring you some spare clothes, your, uh, suit looks like it could use a wash," the man says, looking at the dirty pile of clothes on the floor, likely as a means to avert his gaze from Taehyung's naked body.

The man clears his throat. He seems uncomfortable, but he hasn't left yet. His eyes are still on the tattered mess of clothes. And if Taehyung had to guess, he thinks the man hasn't left yet, because he's wants to be sure that he won't be needing any further help. The gesture is very kind and thoughtful, but the man's also carrying it out in the most awkward way possible and Taehyung is starting to wonder whether he's purposefully being this way or if this is just some latent talent of his. In any case, once the man is satisfied that Taehyung will be fine, he leaves.

Taehyung spends a long time under a firm stream of water after that.

He's surprised to find that, given everything he's experienced, he's still able to enjoy something so warm as the rush of water from a shower. And even more so, he's delighted to find that as this warmth envelopes him, wraps around his frame in cascading streams, his muscles, tight from fear, physical and mental pain, loosen as heat slowly sinks into them. So, he relaxes and then, once lax and pleasantly warm, slips into deep thought. But it's only to quickly find that his mind is a messy swirl, an opaque miasma of thoughts that are too much for him at the moment. And so he has to stop thinking.

Instead, he watches with an intense and newfound fascination as the water at his feet goes from muddied to clear.

Later, smelling of soap and dressed in a borrowed set of clothes, he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror and looking at his reflection, trying, with little success, to understand why his hair, once a dark-brown, is now an ashy grey.

There's a knock at the door.

"Taehyung are you ok? I'm coming in," the man says, as he walks into the bathroom. Taehyung sheepishly notes that he's showered as well.

The man holds his arm out and Taehyung takes it, without thinking. "The sun's at its highest point currently, so you should probably rest," he says.

They make the trip back to the bed a little faster this time.

The bed is pristine, there isn't a speck of blood in sight. The man helps Taehyung lie down and as soon as he's on his back, Taehyung sags tiredly into its softness. All of his remaining strength escapes him then and he becomes as limp as a rag doll.

Deciding to make one last effort before succumbing to sleep, Taehyung's eyes search the room for the man. He finds him. Fluorescent light is spilling over him. The man is standing by the bathroom door.

"Please rest without worry, you're safe here," the man says quietly and then the lights are off and Taehyung's alone in the room, before he can thank him.

Plunged into darkness, Taehyung is moored by a sudden and heavy exhaustion. He falls into a deep sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

whats up! so, real quick, i first posted this fic on AO3 some months back. & ive currenlty got 3 chs published, so i'll be posting those here pretty shortly. anyway, pls leave me ur wonderful feedback, cause i worked really hard on this and it would suck not to know if im spending my energy on something thats trash lol. help me imrpove, by letting me know whay u liked/didn't like

catch me on twiiter negaverseBTS or tumblr as diesel-havok


	2. Chapter 2

In chapter two we find out who rescued Taehyung and learn a little about the world he currently finds himself in.

XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX

Once outside of the room where the fledgling sleeps, he heaves a heavy sigh and wonders how it's possible for everything to have devolved into such a mess so quickly.

Numerous thoughts begin to occur to him then, but he just shakes his head in order to clear it of the useless path that his mind wants to go down. Because, right now, he first and foremost needs to get a hold of the current situation and he can't do that while consumed by wild speculation.

He sighs again, then pats his cheeks, slapping his face lightly with both hands.

Alright, he thinks, where is my phone?

He knows that he'd dropped it at some point, and then remembers, that in his earlier rush, it had been at the door, and so he starts making his way there. As he's walking, a noise, like that of someone repeatedly entering the wrong entrance passcode, reaches him. He stops, momentarily surprised. Then before another attempt can be made, he rushes over to open the door.

"Namjoon!" the person on the other side yells, startled. They recover quickly, though. And eager to be out of the sun, simply squeeze past him and then disappear into the house.

Namjoon stays put, blinks once, then goes about closing the door. "Why can't we just stick to one code for all the safehouses?!" he hears called back to him.

"Jimin, where have you been?" he asks instead, whilst idly listening to the heavy door as it bolts tightly shut.

Jimin responds, "You sound annoyed, but I'm the one who's called you at least ten times now, since hearing your voicemail." His voice echoes as it bounces through the halls, but Namjoon knows he's somewhere in the kitchen.

Satisfied that sunlight can't enter the house anymore, Namjoon turns away from the door and quickly picks his phone up, finding that it's where he'd expected it'd be. Glancing at it, he quickly confirms Jimin's words. He grunts, but says nothing as he makes his way into the kitchen.

"After the third or fourth missed call, I figured I'd need to find you in person, but I didn't know where you were," Jimin says mindlessly, while rummaging through the fridge. He ducks down, momentarily, out of sight. "I checked a couple other safe houses before coming here," he adds, then pops his head up from behind the fridge door to look at Namjoon.

Namjoon's leaning tiredly on the wall at the edge of the kitchen entrance. He hasn't said anything and he's frowning, which speaks volumes to Jimin, so he just turns away to look back inside the fridge again.

Finding what he wants, Jimin straightens and then closes the fridge door with an ankle. "So, what's going on?" he asks Namjoon, then bites into the bag he'd retrieved from the fridge.

"Isn't that shit cold?" Namjoon asks with disgust, ignoring Jimin's question for the moment. Jimin just shrugs, unbothered.

Sighing tiredly, Namjoon turns and quietly exits the kitchen. He makes his way into the livingroom and then drops himself onto a leather couch. He looks up when, not long after, Jimin plops down on the couch across from him. Neither say anything.

"Namjoon, why didn't you pick up any of my calls?"

Namjoon isn't sure how he's supposed to answer Jimin's question, because he doesn't exactly understand the situation himself. Then, after some consideration, he figures he might as well start at the beginning and says, "I ran across a fledgling in the city."

Jimin straightens up in his seat, full attention on Namjoon. "Here? But there weren't any orders for-" Namjoon cuts him off, "No, it wasn't one that needed hunting down."

Jimin relaxes a little hearing that, but then he's confused. "Ok" he says, prompting the other to explain himself.

At a loss for words, Namjoon looks off to the side and away from Jimin. He's trying to order his thoughts, but it's difficult, because he's still swimming after losing so much blood earlier. Then, all at once, words just begin to spill out of him. "This fledgling… He was-it was, you'd have to have seen him to understand. I'd never seen one so near death-so neglected. It was terrible."

The sudden emotionality in Namjoon's voice surprises Jimin, who hasn't seen this side of him in a long time. It makes him curious about what could elicit such a strong response from the other.

Could a dying fledgling really be the cause, he wonders. Maybe, after all, it's rare that a fledgling not be cared for. In fact, most are covetously attended to for the entirety of their short lifespan. At least, that had been the norm for millennia. Still, even as was the case recently, at the very least, fledgling were cared for until they could survive independently. It was yet unheard of to completely abandon bloodborne.

Jimin shakes his head, confused. "And his maker?" he asks.

"Nowhere," Namjoon responds in a grave tone, as he meets Jimin's eyes. Jimin frowns and Namjoon adds, "I don't know who they are. I asked him, but he started talking about his mom," then he stops abruptly, as a deep furrow comes over his brow in thought.

If it were anyone else telling him this, Jimin might think that they were messing with him.

"I found him lying outside in an alley." Namjoon says and to Jimin it sounds like a non-sequitur, but he makes no comment. He just watches as Namjoon quiets and then as his jaw tenses visibly. "It was hours after daybreak," he finally grits out and Jimin winces, realizing what Namjoon means.

"I didn't think our kind could abandon their fledglings-especially to die like that," Namjoon adds, after a moment. Equally aghast, they both grow quiet.

Then Jimin looks at Namjoon, really looks at him. And he finds that there's a deep and genuine sadness in his eyes that has no business being there. Because, no matter how sad it is to see a fledgling abandoned, left to die a cruel death, the fact remains that Namjoon shouldn't feel so much sorrow over some misfortunate fledgling with whom he never shared blood or bond with. Jimin can understand empathy, of course he can, but there's no real reason Namjoon should care this much.

"We're living in a very strange time," Jimin murmurs half to himself and half to Namjoon. He stares at him a minute longer, then sighs and leans back in his seat. He runs a heavy hand through his hair.

While slouching on the couch now, Jimin considers everything Namjoon has shared with him. "I haven't heard something that sad in a long time," he admits truthfully, while staring up at the ceiling. "I hope the poor thing's somewhere better now," he adds as an afterthought.

Then before Jimin can launch into a full, bona fide moment of silence, Namjoon corrects him, "I don't know about better exactly, but he is, currently, in the third bedroom." His eyes are glassy and he's staring at a spot on the coffee table in front of him. He'd spoken without much thought.

Hearing the other's words, Jimin jolts up and out of his slouch, then snaps Namjoon with a disbelieving look, who just ignores him and continues to stare at the same spot with eyes that have a far-away look to them.

Jimin knows Namjoon is no liar, knows it's entirely out of character for this to be some kind of joke, but nonetheless, right now, he needs Namjoon to reconfirm these things for him. "What do you mean?" he asks, but Namjoon doesn't respond and Jimin just stares at him, frustrated by his sudden reticence.

Growing more frustrated, Jimin's about to snap at Namjoon, demand he explain himself, but then Namjoon looks at him and just like that, he knows what the other is trying to say.

"Check for yourself," the steadiness in his gaze says.

So, Jimin does as he's asked and focuses on what he can hear. For a few moments, he listens carefully to every minute noise he can find throughout the safe house.

A quiet, gentle breath fills his ears. Someone is sound asleep in one of the rooms. The third bedroom, to be precise.

Namjoon watches as Jimin listens, then as his eyes begin to widen until they almost seem like they're about to pop out of his head altogether. It's a funny sight. And if Namjoon weren't so drained, so tired, he imagines his own eyes might be just as wide after a night like this.

"But I thought-" Jimin begins saying, but Namjoon quickly stops him by speaking over him with a slew of his own words. "I know. I know," Namjoon says tiredly, though words are still tumbling out of him quickly. "But I just, I couldn't and I didn't know what to do," he says, almost sounding drunk. None of it is making sense to Jimin.

Namjoon's eyes are scanning the surface of the coffee table, quickly roving over it as if in search of words. He takes a quick breath, then blurts out, "I gave him human blood first. But, God, he's so young, it didn't take."

"What do you mean _first_?"

"First human... then I gave him mine-" Jimin explodes completely out of his seat, cutting Namjoon off.

"You _WHAT_?!" Jimin half yells, managing just barely to keep himself in check, because it's still Namjoon he's speaking to. Jimin's eyes close in utter disbelief. He has to take a breath, before looking at Namjoon again. "So, he's Kim descended?"

"Maybe?"

" _Maybe_?!"

Jimin is frozen. His eyes are locked with Namjoon's and Jimin really hates that Namjoon looks just as confused as he feels, because it isn't fair. Namjoon doesn't get to be confused, he should have answers. But instead, he's just sat there, looking all exhausted and worn down, like he's given up.

Jimin comes to a startling realization then, this entire situation is way beyond Namjoon. And he almost wants to laugh, because what hope does he have of understanding any of this if even Namjoon has no clue?

Truthfully, Jimin's appalled by what he's heard, as well as, brimming with confusion for why Namjoon had done what he had. But he knows that all of this is of no use to the situation. His feelings alone won't accomplish anything and it's this thought that allows him to calm down. He exhales a large breath and a moment later, sits back down.

Then, Jimin levels Namjoon with a careful look. "The Kim haven't had fledglings for millennia now, none of the pureblood families have," he states. Namjoon nods in agreement and Jimin frowns, confused.

"Then how or why did you figure he was a Kim?"

Namjoon sighs and then attempts to explain himself. "When I asked him, he told me his name was Kim Taehyung." Jimin scoffs and he's about to protest, but Namjoon holds up a hand in gesture, asking him to listen.

When Jimin complies, Namjoon adds, "Look, I know what it sounds like, but I also had no other information to go off of. Frankly, I didn't know what to do or what to think, so I shared my blood with him and hoped for the best."

Namjoon leans back into the couch where he's sat, allowing himself the luxury of acknowledging, for once, how exhausted he really feels. This doesn't escape Jimin's notice.

"You're fucking drained, aren't you?"

Jimin's eyes are too sharp to lie to, and given that it is Jimin, then the question had likely been rhetorical anyway, so Namjoon doesn't bother with a response. It's all self evident enough for Jimin, he thinks and then lets his eyes slide shut, promising himself it's only for a moment. He sinks further into the couch then, because keeping up appearances is exhausting and he doesn't care for it at the moment.

As Namjoon's lightly resting, he begins to spiral down several trains of thought. Then, though it'd been his intention from the beginning not to burden the other with unnecessary information, something within him figures he might as well tell Jimin what had honestly happened.

"He drank his fill, drained me of more than I had anticipated, then threw most of it back up, before showering and going to bed," Namjoon says, all in one breath.

Stunned by this information and by Namjoon's sudden, forthcoming attitude, Jimin's mouth drops slightly agape. He blinks, eyes fluttering quickly with surprise. Then he asks, "So, wait, he rejected Kim blood, but…he's alive?" and watches as Namjoon opens his tired eyes to look at him.

Still in a deep slouch, Namjoon half-heartedly shrugs. "An incomplete rejection?" he responds, an unspoken 'maybe' is left implied.

Namjoon looks away from Jimin. His eyes wander down the length of the main hall. "I don't know what's going on, but he's resting now. We'll get answers when he wakes," he says, then gets lost in thought again.

This provides Jimin with another opportunity to quietly study him and he notes, first, how odd it is to see Namjoon like this: devoid of his trademark composure and so out of his element, but most of all, so unapologetically open about it. It makes Jimin wonder when he'd last seen anyone so openly display an honest state of self. He feels a sudden reminiscence then and Jimin thinks that, in this moment, Namjoon looks younger, like he's let go of something that's unknowingly been aging him, allowing him to unfurl into a simpler version of himself.

Or maybe he's just suffering from blood loss, Jimin thinks wryly as Namjoon starts to drift off.

"Namjoon, you've gotta feed and then you can get some rest," Jimin says. Namjoon hums and cracks an eyelid open to look at Jimin, but then doesn't move.

Namjoon blinks and Jimin is gone. Grumbling, he sits up quickly, so that he can catch the bag that's wordlessly tossed at him not a second later. He shoots Jimin a look and in a sarcastic tone says, "Good, if you slowed down any, the bag might accidentally warm."

Jimin ignores the comment and just looks at him impatiently instead. And Namjoon, too tired to put up a one-sided fight, simply gives it up and with a grimace, begins to drink from the cold bag. He's done in moments and, immediately, he feels the blood's effect as it spreads through him. It isn't enough and he won't entirely be back to himself for a while longer, but it's enough for now and he's feeling better. He nods to Jimin once in thanks and then stands and starts to make his way towards a bedroom, since it's still day out and he should get some rest.

But just before leaving the room, Namjoon stops and spares a look at Jimin, who's idly stretching his arms and also seemingly planning to get some rest. "What were your orders anyway?" he asks.

Jimin drops his arms and turns to look at him. "Hmm? Oh," he says, "you know, just the same old, execute some errant fledgling." However, it's clear from the other's expression, that the answer he's given has nothing to do with what Namjoon's really asking about. And realizing this, Jimin adds, "Uh, then, after that..."

"Yoongi asked me to cover ground," Jimin adds tersely, after a slight pause. His mouth closes into a hard line.

The growing tension in Jimin's jaw causes Namjoon to quirk up an eyebrow. "Yea, I'm aware of that, he called to tell me, but that's all he had time to say: that you were covering ground and needed help." This doesn't prompt Jimin to explain himself as Namjoon had hoped it would. He notes, though, that in any case, Jimin's jaw is so tense that he looks like he'd struggle to say anything even if he wanted to.

The line of Jimin's body is rigid and his eyes are locked angrily on a spot a few feet in front of him. Seeing this, Namjoon doesn't think it's wise to press him for an answer right away. So he gives him some time. But despite how obviously upset Jimin is, eventually, Namjoon can't help but lose his patience, when the silence stretches on too long.

Namjoon tries his best to not bark out, when he says, "Jimin, I'm the help, so I need to know why or what it was you're covering ground for." And in response to his words, Jimin huffs out a loud, unexpected breath and then begins to laugh dryly to himself. Frowning, Namjoon asks, "What? What's so funny?"

Jimin runs a quick hand through his hair. "A corpse," he says suddenly and then pointedly avoids meeting Namjoon's eyes. His head begins shaking slightly from side to side, at his own words. And then his fingers find purchase on the upholstery of a nearby couch and he starts to scratch lightly at it.

Namjoon throws Jimin a confused look. " _What_?" he asks and watches as the other starts roughly picking at a thread, pulling it loose from the couch's stitching.

"The fledgling I had orders on had a taste for unapproved humans-a lot of college kids," Jimin says. "Before I got rid of it, the sick thing had returned to the graveside of one of its victims. Dug the body out."

And that wasn't something Namjoon had ever expected to hear.

After a moment, Namjoon says, exasperated, "Of course it did." Mentally, he adds this anomaly to the growing list in his mind and then rubs at his right temple wearily.

Not for the first time, Namjoon wonders if he's really qualified for his job.

But if he is or isn't, either way, he knows it makes no difference. This job, this role, and in life, all he can ever really hope to do is just his best. At least, these days, that's what he's been telling himself with an increasing frequency.

Sighing, Namjoon mentally gathers himself up and tries to focus on what's currently at hand. There's something in particular that Jimin had implied that's bothering him, so he figures he should start there. Though, truthfully, Namjoon's half convinced he'd misheard, because the implication is somewhat ludicrous if he hasn't.

Namjoon clears his throat. "Jimin, are you telling me you were told to go looking for a disinterred human corpse?" he asks and inadvertently it comes out sounding like an accusation of Jimin lying. Unsurprisingly, after Namjoon's misstep, the other doesn't dignify him with a response, though, the sound of leather ripping, as Jimin drags his nails deeply across the couch, is really answer enough.

And, well at least now Namjoon could understand why Jimin was being so closed lipped about his orders. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, Namjoon takes a moment to really get into his role. He has a job to do after all. Wearily, he asks, "Alright, what can you tell me about the fledgling?"

But, being as unhelpful as possible, Jimin just shrugs in response, while looking at the tear he's made, and Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. "Digging up an old kill is not normal fledgling behavior, even for an out of control one. And you can't tell me anything about it?" Then, in a tone that he immediately regrets, Namjoon asks, "Did you not bother to look into it or something?"

Jimin is quick to snap back. "I didn't stop to ask it questions! I did my job and I did what needed to be done." Then he huffs, irritated that Namjoon and this entire situation have managed to get under his skin. He hates snapping at others, hates getting this worked up.

Admittedly, though, Jimin knows he isn't helping things along either. Earlier, Namjoon had freely and honestly communicated with him. He'd also shown a part of himself that Jimin didn't think he'd ever see again. And thus far, he's done nothing to reciprocate in kind.

Sighing, Jimin crosses his arms over his chest and then inhales and exhales deeply through his nose. "Besides," he says, roughly, "I didn't even know about the corpse, until…" He stops and huffs in irritation, then runs a hand through his hair for the nth time that day.

Jimin looks up in an attempt to speak levelly. Blinking up at the ceiling, he says, "I was reporting to Yoongi, I thought I was about to head home, so imagine my surprise when I found out there was a whole part two to the job."

"Part two? Wait," Namjoon says, as his brow furrows, "you weren't told everything upfront?"

Jimin gives Namjoon a hard look. "If I'd known about the corpse, do you honestly think I wouldn't have looked into the fledgling?" And Namjoon's eyes have to quickly flick away from Jimin's then, because, yes, he knows how thorough the other is and he was wrong to have made any insinuations to the contrary earlier.

"I was sent out with half the pertinent information," Jimin says and there's an uncharacteristic amount of edge to his voice.

Frowning at a far wall, Namjoon murmurs to himself, "When did we start withholding information from each other?" And then, louder, he says, "It was irresponsible to send you out like that."

Meeting Jimin's eyes, he adds, "I understand why you'd be upset."

Jimin nods, feeling slightly vindicated. Then he looks thoughtful for a moment and inhales as though he's about to say something, but stops right before a single word can leave his mouth. Namjoon looks at him strangely.

Jimin hesitates for another moment and then finally says, "But, ...if I'm being honest." He stops though. Because, aloud, Jimin thinks that the words sound strange. They're both too big and too small for the silence of the living room.

But Jimin is determined, so he coughs once and then continues, "It's Jungkook. That's what upset me the most."

"Do you mean his orders?" Namjoon asks, confused, and then adds, "Or has something happened? Did he-"

Jimin interrupts him. "No, and he's pretty much like you saw him last," he says, as he eyes the tattered mess he's made of the couch. The corners of his lips pull down in a frown, but he looks more confused than upset. "I wish you could have seen him."

"Before daybreak today, he, himself, came here to fetch Yoongi for the council meeting." Jimin's eyebrows furrow, as he adds, "I've never seen him so impatient and jumpy."

"He looked tired, but restless at the same time-kept looking around everywhere." Jimin pauses. "I think something's wrong with him," he says.

When Jimin looks back at Namjoon again, he can see that the gears are already turning in the other's head. And he has to hide a small, relieved smile at the sight, because he'd been worried that his concerns would be met by dismissal. It's in moments like these that Jimin's reminded Namjoon hadn't been made the Court's leader for nothing. Namjoon is a great leader, because he is many things, but chief amongst these he is first and foremost smart and kind. Their Court is lucky to have him.

But then, Jimin thinks, as he looks at the weight of Namjoon's shoulders, how they bunch and how Namjoon unconsciously squeezes at them to release their tension, that great leaders can only do so much on their own. And Namjoon doesn't have a team, because the court hasn't been a team for a while.

And maybe, he thinks, that means _he_ needs to do a little better, needs to do a little more than just reciprocate.

Jimin considers this thought for a moment. He bites at the inside of his cheek and then takes a couple determined steps in Namjoon's direction, until he's standing at arm's distance. Namjoon looks at him in surprise.

"I think Yoongi is concerned," Jimin starts, then stops. "No, the truth is he is concerned, we all are. " He's looking at Namjoon with an open and earnest expression that's daring him to say otherwise.

And Namjoon would be lying if he did, so he keeps quiet. "Yoongi, uh, his patience is starting to wear real thin," Jimin says, losing some steam but still speaking with candor. It doesn't help that Namjoon is looking at him with something akin to trepidation in his eyes.

Jimin takes a deep breath and plows forward anyway, determined, because teamwork and honest communication have to be fought for sometimes. So he begins by saying, "You see.. It's cause Yoongi's a straightforward guy and he hasn't said so, but I know he hates this whole mess, because there's nothing straightforward about it." But then Jimin stops, realizing that he's using a truth about Yoongi's character to express his own frustrations.

"He hates this whole mess-" Jimin starts again, then pauses once more. He clears his throat, but the words still won't come out, so clears it again. " I hate this whole mess," he finally says, voice quiet, "and I'm not just talking about anything that's happened today."

"None of us have said as much, but I can feel it," Jimin adds, avoiding the look on Namjoon's face, because it's too much to bear right now. "What we've become, this isn't going to fix itself and we keep letting Jungkook skirt around it." Jimin ignores the voice in his head that scoffs at his own cowardice, how he's shirked the burden of his own blame, because it's not just Jungkook, they're all complicit.

Namjoon can feel his face warming. And he knows that if he checked, he'd find that his chest is flushed red, hot with a deep shame and embarrassment. Because Jimin's words are a sharp reminder of how, since waking, he's failed his team at every turn and, worse yet, how he's never once tried to rectify their path since it'd gone astray. Instead, he's been content to pretend, as well as, allow the others to pretend that what had become of them was just what destiny had writ and that there was nothing to be done about it.

Jimin is right, this won't fix itself, wasn't ever going to fix itself, but still Namjoon had allowed it to fester. And yea, part of him knows everyone had played a part, but as their leader, he thinks that he's the only one truly at blame. He's done wrong.

He doesn't want to continue doing wrong.

Jimin's words have exposed a part of his mind that had been hidden, buried under a mountain of matters and responsibilities of greater importance—excuses. And Something in Namjoon's heart can't bear to bury it a second time.

However, he also can't bear the idea of messing things up further, so he stays quiet, afraid that he'll start making excuses for himself if he opens his mouth.

But staying silent, he realizes, would just be repeating the same mistake. Namjoon doesn't have the right words to say though.

Without any thought, Namjoon's arm lurches forward, too quick and somewhat jerky, but he doesn't take the action back, follows it through until his hand is resting on Jimin's shoulder. Jimin jumps a little in surprise and turns a wide-eyed look on him. They stare at each other. But still Namjoon doesn't say anything.

And he isn't going to, because he doesn't know which of the thousands of words that fill his mind will express what he feels most accurately, most faithfully. He's afraid of being misunderstood, but most of all, he's afraid of the possibility that they're no longer even able to understand one another.

It hadn't always been like this. They'd been slowly poisoned into it.

It had started five years ago. Tension had invaded their system not long after their waking. None of them could have possibly expected it, and so none of them had known how to fight it. Free to spread, it had attacked their throats first, making the muscle there too rigid and tight to talk. Undisrupted by what they could have said, what they should have said, a heaviness had then began to grow in their chests, in their hearts. Unchecked, it grew bigger and bigger, every time they had looked at one another.

They'd been as one before, their minds and hearts transparent to each other. The poison had changed that. It had fragmented them, then scattered the pieces in different directions. And naturally, the distances between their scattered remains had increased with time.

Namjoon had watched it happen, had seen them drift apart. But he'd done nothing. He'd just stopped at the thought that it was both funny and cruel that the law of entropy could apply to their hearts and figured there was nothing to be done against the laws of nature.

Perhaps, he'd been wrong.

The silence between Namjoon and Jimin is awkward. They're still staring at each other, equally unsure and unfamiliar of the territory they've just entered.

But Namjoon's sharing this pivotal moment with Jimin and so he has to wonder if this is fate finally conspiring in their favor. Out of all people, Jimin's privy to landscapes others can only imagine. He's keenly empathetic and so he knows what Namjoon is trying to say, even when he lacks the words to do so.

Namjoon thinks that, on some level, Jimin understands the whole of their situation better than anyone else, because, no one else had watched as closely as he had when the tethers of their relationship had loosened over time. Jimin, he thinks, had felt as they came apart with an intensity no one else had, had to endure.

And really, Namjoon should have seen this day coming. He should have known Jimin would one day speak up. He should have known this conversation was inevitable. He should have. He should have.

He's plagued by "should have's". But he's starting to think that, maybe, that's just a normal consequence of any life lived.

So he vows to learn to accept their presence and continue moving forward anyway.

Namjoon squeezes Jimin's shoulder and their shared eye contact settles into something less uncomfortable, more familiar.

Jimin exhales, relieved by Namjoon's quiet but positive response and Namjoon lets go of his shoulder. Shy, they can't help but look away from each other again.

"Uh, and also, I guess, you should probably know," Jimin says, in part because he's unable to stand the awkward quiet that has descended over them and in part because he thinks Namjoon should know, "Yoongi may have indirectly confronted Jungkook earlier."

Namjoon's brow furrows. Any earlier embarrassment is shed away, as he turns to look at Jimin. "What do you mean?" he asks cautiously.

Jimin rubs at the back of his neck. "He asked Jungkook if he wanted to do a quick search, phrased it like they'd be doing me a favor, helping me out. But it was pretty apparent what he was getting at."

"He was making light of Jungkook's orders, by asking him to spend time searching for a human corpse," Namjoon says, running a hand down his face. "He taunted Jungkook and then Jungkook did what Jungkook does, right?" Jimin nods.

Namjoon's eyes close and he drops his head back. When he opens them again, he's looking up at the ceiling. For a moment, he tries to find hidden answers or guidance, or both, in its texture. But all he comes up with is that, despite everything, they really aren't a whole lot different from who they used to be: boys who'd pick on each other for fun. And he thinks, maybe their biggest mistake had been attempting to pretend any different. They're still those boys at heart. They'd just convinced themselves otherwise, in order to cope with the burden of their new responsibilities.

Everyone's the same, he thinks, except now everyone's wearing masks of their own creation, so that they can play at being whatever they think it means to be an 'adult'.

Jimin laughs lightly. The airy tinkle of it shocks Namjoon into looking at him. "Imagine if he'd known that look back then," Jimin says with a small smile. Namjoon is confused, but then he realizes what Jimin's referring to and wonders how the other had guessed his thoughts so closely.

But then he thinks, it's Jimin, of course he had.

"You know, that look, the one he's learned since waking," Jimin adds and Namjoon smiles, imagining adult Jungkook's favorite expression on the little runt of a boy that Jungkook once was.

The atmosphere quickly sobers, though, when Jimin suddenly frowns in memory. "That look, it's more impassive, colder, everytime I see it," he says.

Namjoon watches intently, as Jimin appears to grow thoughtful over something.

"But earlier," Jimin says, still mulling over his thoughts, "when he pulled that look on Yoongi, for a split second I swear I could see something feint, like ghostlike tracings of where it's beginning to crack."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, it was really quick," Jimin says, running a hand through his hair. "For a second, he looked like glass that was moments away from shattering and then in the next second, he was gone. He'd flickered away, without a word."

Jimin frowns, still in thought. "He was in such a hurry to get away."

It isn't clear yet how, but this has to be significant, Namjoon thinks. Jungkook's behavior is strange, growing stranger still. And Namjoon doesn't see how it's coincidental that strange behavior has recently begun to pop up all over their society as well.

Namjoon's mind is whirring. He's trying to make sense of what he's heard, what he's seen today, of all that has come before, but it's difficult and he's growing frustrated. Everytime he attempts to couple any two pieces of information together, nothing makes sense anymore. Everything is too scattered. Putting together a larger picture is impossible.

He must be missing something, or at least he hopes that's the case, because otherwise he doesn't think he'll ever figure this out. No, not as such, especially with the many, recent societal aberrations that were reducing the working foundation of his logic and rendering large parts of it unreliable.

He can't begin to predict or understand behavior and motivation, if the age-old norms of their society and their very nature were no longer applicable to some.

Nothing makes sense to Namjoon anymore and it's kind of a novel experience for him. He doesn't like it.

"Namjoon, I know we put a lot on you, but you shouldn't burden yourself with all of this alone," Jimin says, bringing Namjoon out of his thoughts. He's looking at him with concern.

Namjoon doesn't know what to say. After all, he can't very well stop himself from thinking or worrying and as much as he thinks Jimin's words over, he can't find any reason he shouldn't burden himself either.

The small corners of Jimin's lips pull up in humor and his eyes wrinkle slightly, as he does his best to hold in a laugh. If someone were to look at Namjoon right now, they might think he's busy differentiating a function in his head, one that's particularly tough at that.

Jimin thinks it's endearing. "Oh, Joon," he says on a small giggle.

Hearing the nickname, Namjoon blinks, stunned. It's been a long time since someone called him by that name.

"Joon," Jimin says again, as if he's testing the name out. "At the very least, you can't be the only one thinking yourself in circles. We all gotta start putting our heads together again. We work better that way," he says.

Namjoon blinks again, several times, then nods in a stilted, but enthusiastic manner. "Yea, that's," he says, trying to hold back a smile, "yea, I agree." Then, despite his efforts, the floodgates bust open and he beams warmly at Jimin, who smiles back just as happily. And for a moment, they just smile at one another without reservation, like they're boys all over again.

"Ok," Jimin says clapping his hands lightly together, blissful with this newfound sense of camaraderie, so much so, that he has to pause and think for a moment, before saying, "Uh, well, since we're putting our heads together, why do you think Jungkook wants the missing corpse of a human found?"

"Jimin how is that putting our heads together? Do you have your own theory or are you just asking for mine?"

Jimin's shoulders raise a little, making it so he's hunching, and he smiles guiltily. There's a bit of an accusation in the way Namjoon's looking at him, but he doesn't say anything more, just waits for Jimin to respond.

Jimin snaps his fingers once, then turning them into finger guns, points them at Namjoon. "No, I don't. But also you're the smart one," he says.

Namjoon sighs wearily and rubs at his forehead, dragging the hand down to cover his eyes.

" _Fine_ ," Jimin whines. "Actually, I do have one. But it's dumb." Namjoon frowns at him.

"Whatever it is, say it. You notice more than you realize," he replies emphatically.

Jimin considers this for a moment, then purses his lips, "I think…, but no, no," he pauses. "Nevermind, Joon."

Namjoon gives him a look, Jimin sighs. "Ok, ok," he says. "Something about Jungkook's behavior makes me think...," Jimin starts out, but he pauses again. He sighs. "I don't know, but it's almost like he needs this corpse to be found and it's for reasons he may or may not understand."

"And," Jimin adds, "I think either way, he doesn't think we'd be able to understand him, so he's afraid to talk about it."

"But it's just a gut feeling, I have nothing to validate why I think this," Jimin finishes.

And though Jimin may not have anything to validate his thoughts, for Namjoon, Jimin's gut feeling is validation enough.

"The crazy thing is, part of me really wants to find this thing for him," Jimin says, almost as an aside. And confused by his words, all of Namjoon's thoughts come to an abrupt halt.

Jimin rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "You know, because it might help him, might fix whatever's wrong," he says.

"How would a human, a dead one, make any difference?" Namjoon asks.

Jimin blushes lightly and shrugs. "Just another gut feeling," he answers and then adds, "It's dumb," with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

Namjoon blinks. And for once, he's not so sure he trusts Jimin's gut feeling entirely. "It's not in our nature to care for humans, much less ones that are dead. Their existence is largely irrelevant to us," he says, somewhat philosophically, so as not to dismiss Jimin entirely. Still, his words cause Jimin to grow more embarrassed.

"But," Namjoon adds, while looking at Jimin, "to quote a friend, 'We're living in a very strange time.'" And Jimin smiles softly, shyly at Namjoon, who's just called him a friend.

Still somewhat flustered by Namjoon's sincerity, the next thing Jimin says is just the first thing to cross his mind. "I'm glad we ended up on the same demeaning task of looking for a half rotten kid."

" _Jimin_ ," Namjoon immediately chastises and the other reflexively roll his eyes. "What's demeaning is to have your burial site disturbed," he says. "And it doesn't matter the species, a disturbed burial is always disrespectful. It's sad, in fact."

"Namjoon, you know what I mean though," Jimin responds. "I know it's sad, but this case is sad in the same way a dog digging up the bunny it killed is sad," he explains and looks at Namjoon, until he nods, reluctantly conceding him this point.

"Fine, to us at least. The bunnies, however, might feel different," Namjoon says.

"I imagine they might, but that still doesn't make me feel any different," Jimin quips back, confused by whatever point Namjoon is trying to make. "Why does it matter?"

Namjoon raises a placating hand. "It doesn't really. Except that, in this case, it would benefit us to stop and consider how the bunnies feel." Jimin looks at him confused. "What I mean is," Namjoon explains, "if humans come across this corpse before we do, it might present an issue."

Jimin still looks confused. Namjoon sighs. "If humans find it, they won't ignore it. They'll move it and put it in a morgue, then cremate it or rebury it. And who knows where that might be or if we'll ever find it." Jimin responds with a soft 'oh'.

Then, realizing how difficult their task could potentially be, Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. "And all of this mess, because someone decided to make a fledgling, only to later abdicate their responsibility over it." Namjoon huffs out a large breath, irritated.

"Why does anyone ever choose to make a fledgling?" Namjoon mumbles to himself. Jimin knows Namjoon's being rhetorical, but he shrugs anyways.

"They're genetic dead ends!" Namjoon says in irritation. "Nothing good ever comes from hybrid offspring. I don't understand some people's fascination with them. I mean, they're too riddled with genetic mutations to even live past a century or two!"

Jimin listens in quiet amusement, as Namjoon rants and when he finally finishes speaking, he comments, "That's a very Pureblood thing of you to say." Namjoon just gives him a look and this causes Jimin to laugh. "What? It was," he says, between giggles.

Then, Jimin sighs and gently places a hand on Namjoon's shoulder. "Joon, for now let's focus on the fact that we're racing humans to find the corpse and they're not even looking for anything." He says this in an attempt to settle Namjoon, who's prone to spiraling out in frustration after considering all the possible problems they might face.

"This corpse has been missing for about a week and no one's come across it yet," Jimin says. "So let's not worry about whether it's been moved, cause it probably hasn't."

Namjoon takes a steadying breath. "Right," he says, nodding in agreement. "The fledgling probably stashed it somewhere."

"Yea, the kid's just waiting to be found," Jimin says and nods back at Namjoon, as if he's just stated the obvious.

"It's not like he can wander around in his condition," Jimin adds and they both stop nodding at each other, so that they can laugh. It isn't really that funny, but there's years worth of tension that needs releasing.

"Yea, yea, you're right," Namjoon says, between chuckles.

When they sober, Namjoon looks at Jimin and says, "We should get some rest, we're both tired and the sun won't be down for a couple more hours. And who know what lies ahead."

Jimin quickly agrees with a short yawn and then, without further incident, they make their way into empty bedrooms and tuck in for a couple hours of rest.

XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX

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	3. Chapter 3

Unprecedented, he thinks. This world is unprecedented.

He's tried in the past to ignore this thought and he still does, but a growing plague of questions and doubts that arise from it are making it nearly impossible to do so anymore. These thoughts, they churn impatient and demanding at the forefront of his mind. And occupied by their vigorous assault, most days, he's too consumed by them to properly carry out his duties.

He's growing increasingly afraid that centuries had been wasted preparing him for a role he's too incompetent to fill.

His heart sinks. He takes in a quiet breath.

With another measured breath, he realizes he needs to loosen his hold on the armrest of his chair or risk breaking it. As he releases it, the wood gives a little groan and he tenses, but luckily no one spares the noise any mind. Relieved, he focuses his attention back on the council member who currently holds the floor.

The man, Head of one of the noble families, is speaking maddeningly slow and, after taking a number of surreptitious steps, standing very near him. He'd pretended not to notice the councilman's advance, ignoring each small step. Which is why, when the man takes another step closer, he's too busy attempting to ignore it to realize that he's been asked a question.

Suddenly, all eyes are on him, but he doesn't know what's been asked. So in lieu of a proper response, he just nods once, curt, and hopes that it's appropriate enough.

Everyone seems to accept this response, but he isn't sure if it'd been the right call to make. Because, somehow, the small, inane gesture of his nod seems to overly satisfy the man, whom he watches smile smugly and then throw a triumphant look around at the gathered council. It bothers him, because the man is clearly misconstruing something here, but he can't take his actions back anymore. So he does his best to quietly listen, while holding in a sigh, as the councilman continues on with his slow, self important speech.

He's finding it increasingly difficult to pay attention these days.

He sighs internally.

Another council member stands up. He quickly clears his throat and then takes the floor. As is expected from any councilmember, he begins by first lauding the dignity and greatness of his noble lineage. It's unnecessary and a waste of time, but all of the heads of house do this.

In all honesty, he doesn't think they can help themselves, after all, posturing is all they know how to do.

With another internal sigh, he mentally prepares for another long winded extolment. But just as he's settling in, he's unexpectedly taken aback, almost slips up, and very nearly breaks the impassive, neutral mien he carefully maintains, when the man only sings a few short praises and then quickly moves on. No councilmember before this man, at least in his experience, had ever said so little about their lineage.

Quick and careful to maintain his composure, he somehow avoids outwardly reacting, but it still takes his mind a moment to recover from the surprise, during which the man presents the issues he would like to discuss. Still thrown by the strange turn of events, it doesn't register with him right away that the man has asked him something.

Frustrated by his own incompetence, he wonders why exactly it's so difficult to pay attention these days. But part of him knows why and dwelling on the causes is only further distracting him, so he ignores theses thoughts altogether. After a short moment of consideration, the councilman's words finally trickle into the forefront of his mind.

A report.

The man had asked for a report of some kind and he's staring at him, expectantly. They all are.

But a report? Who has a report to give, he thinks in a panic.

On complete autopilot, he says, "Go ahead," and then gestures vaguely to someone who's usually stood at his left and a little behind him. He cringes internally, hoping that he hasn't just made a fool of himself.

There's a pause.

The pause isn't long, but it feels like an eternity to him. In the span of that pause, he thinks that he's been found out, that they can all see in his head. For a moment, he's paralyzed by the fear that they can see the crack of lightning in his eyes, see the raging mess of a storm within him and how it's taking up the entirety of his mind and mental focus. But the moment passes as everyone directs their eyes to his left and a little behind him.

A dutiful, steady voice fills the room.

So as to contextualize the report, it's customary for background information to be supplied first. And it's as this information is being given, that he's finally able to figure out what the councilman's concerns pertain to. The man, he finds, has asked about the same report that had only just been waiting for him first thing this dusk, as he'd walked into his office.

Laying atop his desk in the early hours of the evening, the report had seemed inescapably important, so he'd picked it up and very quickly read it. Afterwards, he wasn't entirely surprised to find that its contents were quite alarming.

He wonders how the council will take this news.

So curious of their reaction, he watches the faces of those sat around him very, very closely, ready to catch even the most minute change in expression, as they listen to the report.

However, they don't get very far, before there's already an interruption.

"General," someone says with undue exasperation. It's an ugly and rude display of discourtesy, he thinks, especially given that it's by the same councilman who'd asked for the report in the first place.

"I apologize for interrupting your report," the councilman says, without any real remorse, "but, please clear something up for me. How would a 'group', such as the one you're describing, possibly exist outside of the rule and authority of a responsible party?"

With a disdainful look, the man adds, "Do you really mean to say no one was overseeing this group? Or is it merely that you have not yet identified them?" Then, as if expecting to be congratulated for what he's just said, the man turns to look at him.

He pointedly avoids meeting the man's eyes.

The councilman, clearly disliking that he's avoided his gaze, decides to stand up in order to seek a better reaction from the others instead. He asks the room at large, "What he's saying is preposterous, has anyone even heard of a mixed group before?"

No one answers the question, which seems to prove whatever point the man is trying to make.

One by one, the nobles turn their unsure eyes on him, but he doesn't know what to say. And when he doesn't say anything, they then direct their attention back to the person standing a little behind him and to his left.

"To answer your first question councilman, when I encountered them, no one was presently responsible for the group, nor, to the best of my knowledge, had anyone ever been. As well, I'd also like to assure everyone that I arrived at these conclusions only after thoroughly investigating the matter."

The response is enviously calm and carefully level. Hearing it makes him feel like a child.

The response continues and it's just as composed and as professional as before. "As for your second question, though difficult to believe, I can attest to witnessing the existence of a group containing a mix of fledglings from six different lineages."

Those words ring sharply throughout the room and, within him, he hears the echo of an unrelenting thought, as it bounces around the corners of his mind. "Unprecedented," intonates from no source in particular, dispersing like the waves of a skipped rock. His shoulders are heavy with tension.

He wonders if this is it, if this is the moment when everything starts to fall apart.

He expects a strong reaction from the nobles, since the existence of a mixed group of fledglings living on their own goes against everything they know. In fact, this news goes against their very nature, as they know it. Because it's entirely contrary to the notoriously possessive hold that all lineages, from the archaic Purebloods to the younger ones that had arisen later on, have over their bloodborne.

But no one says anything at all. The report simply continues and then reaches its conclusion without any comment.

In the end, the council members are visibly skeptical of what they've heard. Some look genuinely convinced they've just been fed a tall tale, some wild fabrication of an overly active imagination. And so being who they are, it doesn't take the council very long to collectively decide that they're above having to entertain such a ridiculous report altogether.

Someone gives a little cough, someone else shuffles their papers, and just like that, the council sweeps the report under a rug and then moves onto the next topic.

He's floored by this easy dismissal, though, he's also not entirely sure what else he really expected. Because if this room were instead a ship and it somehow sprang a leak, he knows, every one of these council members would sooner drown than admit that their ship could be capable of sinking in the first place.

But really, the council's ignorance, deliberate and sincere alike, is a non issue. Because it's his birth-given duty, in the simplest of terms, to keep their ship afloat, not theirs. He's the one tasked with keeping the seawater out.

Unfortunately, therein lies one of his greatest problems. The storm in his mind rains down so hard on everything these days, that his eyes see nothing but water and he isn't sure he trusts himself to spot a leak anymore.

Earlier tonight, as he'd sat at his desk reading that report, he'd had the audacity to think that he'd spotted something potentially dangerous to their way of life. Then, for a moment, as it'd been shared with the council, he'd had some small confidence that he'd been right, that the report warranted that they, at the very least, check their metaphorical ship over and ensure everything was alright. But he'd been proven wrong, when the report was met by an easy dismissal.

Whatever little confidence he'd had in himself is gone now. He wants to think that he's been gaslighted, that the council is pretending, that really this news has rocked them with an uneasy fear, but he's not so sure of that either. All he knows, with any certainty, is that everything feels equally uncertain and he can't pretend to know what he's doing anymore.

He's not sure, but he thinks he might be losing his mind.

It would make sense, would provide a neat explanation for everything that's wrong with him, how little of himself he recognizes, and why he can't seem to do anything to change that. And in the back of his mind he thinks, most of all, it'd explain that . The one thing he least understands, that has no plausible explanation. It'd provide a reason for the nonsensical urges that had come over him within the last two weeks.

A quick, harsh crack resounds in the room.

Everyone's attention snaps to him and he realizes he's broken his armrest with the strength of his grip. It's the one thing he'd been attempting to avoid all night.

He panics internally, unsure of what to do or what to say.

Someone comes to his rescue.

"Ah," they sigh and then clap him on the back with pride, leaving their hand there. The sudden act catches him off guard and he turns to look at the seat directly to his right where they're sat. "Recently, His Majesty has grown stronger and so sometimes he forgets his own strength," they say, speaking to the council.

He nods once, a bit stiffly, because what the other has said is a blatant lie.

The hand on his back is heavy and warm. It pats him once, twice and then doesn't return. Thinking that means the spotlight of attention has successfully been shifted, he takes a small, relieved breath. He doesn't realize, however, that the little scene he's caused has managed to get the wheels turning amongst some of the more opportunistic nobles.

A councilwoman clears her throat and then says, "At this rate Your Majesty, you'll be the strongest ruler to have lived." When she turns an eerily earnest look in his direction, he sighs, audibly for once, hoping she'll take that as a hint. She doesn't, of course.

"This remarkable trait will surely be passed down to your future heir," she adds on a moment later, with a kind smile and greedy eyes.

This particular line of conversation is one which he knows the person sat at his right won't allow to continue. Unfortunately, though, this woman isn't dumb. She's very aware of how short her window of opportunity is and so, before anyone can edge a word in, she asks, "Have you given any thought to taking a mate yet?"

Immediately, as if they all formed part of a single, many-eyed organism, the rest of the council perks up in their seats as one at her words. Their expressions morph, synchronizing until they're all wearing the same look on their faces. It's a comically horrifying sight to witness.

It raises the hair on the back of his neck.

The person at his right is saying something, but it's too late for damage control. Everyone is speaking at once.

Over the din of the room, one noble manages to speak with enough volume and authority to be heard, booming out, "The Royal lineage!" He pauses and everyone quiets. Satisfied by this attention, the noble lowers his voice and continues, "The Royal lineage has historically taken our heirs for mates."

He's barely spoken the words, when they're met by a collective groan from the others. And the welter of voices resumes.

They're talking over each other, but some things he's able to discern.

"Yes, but your heir is centuries too old, our's is more suitable!"

"Please, your lineage hasn't had a soul bonded pair since the last millenia! Tell me, is your bloodline even capable of it anymore?"

"Half of all of your lineage's matings can't even produce children!"

Their talk begins to grow heated quickly. In fact, it's doesn't take long for them to abandon all propriety and decorum, so that they can throw insults freely at one another.

He listens to them fight and thinks it's absolutely ridiculous how much they seem to care about whom he takes as a mate. It's ridiculous, as well, that they continue to quarrell as though he isn't present. And that aside from the lone question that had started this all, no one else has stopped to ask him what he thinks, much less whom he wants to mate.

But it's just as well, he thinks, because he doesn't care.

A single, powerful pulse radiates through him then. Shaken by its intensity, he mentally curses that that has chosen this moment to rear its ugly head. He curses it further when it doesn't just leave him in peace, but instead takes to nurturing that maddening urge within him, the one that's been haunting him as of late. He hates it, wants it gone. And he'd be rid of it too, if he knew how. But he hasn't been able to satisfy this irresistible urge yet, because he has no clue what could begin to satiate it. It just keeps building like a strong, phantom itch that he can't scratch.

It's making him go crazy.

Then, he isn't sure, but he thinks he feels what might be a tug. But that doesn't make any sense and so he wonders, terrified, if he's beginning to hallucinate things now.

The council members are still arguing with each other. The person at his right is vainly attempting to steer them down a different course, but from the sound of things, it isn't working.

The tug is a little stronger, more insistent. He ignores it and, focusing instead on something that he knows is real, listens to the voices of those around him.

"The beauty of our house's heir is unrivalled. One glance at him and I'm sure His Majesty would settle for no one less!"

"Certainly for no less, but there's far better yet, such as our own heir, whose beauty is truly unmatched!"

A beautiful mate would be nice, he thinks, as he distracts himself with the council's words. Naturally curious, he begins to wonder what that noble's heir must look like, for him to claim their beauty as unmatched, but then just as he's beginning to conjure up an image, the tug pulls at him too sharply to ignore and he stops.

What is beauty anyway, he thinks then, but the veneer that would allow him to take some small pleasure in a mating. That's all it is. And he knows it's important that he remind himself of that, because beauty can be treacherous. It's both the most frivolous and most dangerous characteristic of all for another to hold. It's superficial, offers nothing but what the eye can see. And all too too easily, it can be weaponized against anyone weak to it.

He'd be a fool to allow himself to fall in the trappings of anyone's beauty.

His chest gives a nasty lurch, as if both agreeing and disagreeing with him. It's such a strange feeling that as he puzzles over it, he misses a question, for the third time that night, that someone has directly asked him. They repeat it again, but their words don't make sense. He's confused and that confusion must show, because they repeat themselves one more time.

"Your Majesty, have you experienced any hint of a soul bond?" asks a councilwoman and he immediately knows why she's asking. He's recently met her heir and she's betting against all odds that he's found his mate in her.

Without explanation, his heart skips a beat and then starts pounding away. The beat is so strong, he can hear it, which means so can everyone else. On the woman's face a small, smug smile begins to grow and its presence enrages him. In his fury, the beating of his heart only grows stronger and the woman smiles wider.

She believes his reaction has answered her question.

But he's met more than just her heir before and so the same smile starts to pop up on a handful of different faces. Those with heirs he's met look at him smugly, as though they have him all figured out, whilst the others do a poor job of concealing their displeasure. Regardless of how they look at him though, he loathes all of their expressions. He wants nothing more than to wipe all of their faces clean, because, whether they're gleefully convinced that he holds a bond for their heir or not, they're all still just a bunch of fools and sycophants who don't know anything.

The irony of this situation doesn't escape his notice.

If only these nobles knew, he thinks.

Would they still clamber over each other in the race to mate off their heir to him, if they knew what orders he'd given Jimin recently? If they knew even a fraction of the deranged motivations he'd had to do so? No, he doesn't think they would. In fact, he thinks they wouldn't hesitate to overthrow him, old tradition be damned, and then turn on each other.

A queasy tangle begins to form in his stomach then, as he thinks of the lives that would be lost and how their small numbers would grow smaller still in the face of such a power vacuum.

As thoughts that he's actively attempted to ignore harshly invade his mind, he starts growing so tense that the muscles of his frame begin to tremble in stress. They tremble harder when he attempts to keep himself still.

A hand lands suddenly on his back. It's heavy and warm. Then another one, less heavy, but no less warm, lands lightly on his left shoulder. Under the hands of his court, he relaxes marginally.

They probably don't realize what they've done. He imagines they're simply reacting to his stress, but to him this gesture is a much needed reminder. He may be endangering lives with his failed leadership, rash actions, and deteriorating mind, but, at the very least, the world can rely on his court to come to its defence.

If the noble's knew of his erratic behavior, of his strange demands, their world would quickly spiral into chaos. But by some providence, that isn't so. Instead, the world is lucky to have his court's loyalty and honor at its service, because it's only their silence and discretion which currently protects them all. They alone know of his shortcomings. They alone have witnessed his wild degradation.

But after deeper consideration, a troubling thought occurs to him then.

He isn't actually sure what the court knows. In fact, he's beginning to realize that half of them are likely in the dark about that order. And so he has to wonder, will the half that knows tell the ones who don't? Does he want them to? Could he even ask his court to keep secrets from each other? Would they listen, if he did?

Does any of this secrecy even matter?

Because it seems to be the case that whatever is happening to him, whatever it is that has him acting so erratically and irrational, is bound to continue growing. And at this rate, he's sure that, soon enough, it's going to grow too big to be obscured by just silence alone. It won't be long before everyone's free to notice it, free to see it, free to see him .

A fierce howling of wind rips through his ears suddenly. His eyes note, however, that not a single paper has been disturbed.

His throat is squeezed tightly together, so he has to clear it roughly and then wrench it open to speak. "The council is dismissed," he says, interrupting whatever conversation had been taking place. Everyone turns to look at him, but no one makes to leave.

In an attempt to hold back an irritated growl, the muscles of his jaw spasm, tight and tense. The hand still on his shoulder squeezes him lightly and in response he takes a long, measured breath through his nose. Then, because no one has yet taken heed of his dismissal, he says, "Need I repeat myself?" The words come out harsher than he'd intended. The hands on his back and shoulder are withdrawn.

With a quiet murmur and several exchanged glances, the council finally decides to clear out of the large room. And with them gone, at last, he's able to lean back into his chair so that he may attempt to ground himself in the silence left behind.

It's quiet for all of half a second, though, because an exasperated sigh, followed by the clap of someone loudly slapping their palm onto the table, quickly demands his attention.

The person sat at his right says, "Need I repeat myself ?!"

Whilst mourning the silence lost, he ignores the comment and simply begins to gather up his things: documents and papers he hadn't made actual use of tonight. As he's gathering his things though, he senses that the other is looking at him expectantly. So in return, he asks, "What would you have had me say, Jin?" while throwing the man a quick, challenging look.

Then, he continues to gather his possessions.

Jin huffs, affronted, and then asks, "Seriously?" But that doesn't garner a response from him, so he directs the same rhetorical question to the other two presently in the room. One of them, Yoongi, grunts, and it's clear from that, that he's wordlessly in agreement with Jin.

The other one doesn't comment immediately. He's quiet for a beat, before carefully hedging, saying, "Whatever we think he could have, should have , said is inconsequential. Because he's already said what he has. It's done, I don't exactly see the point of this conversation."

Jin retorts, "No, of course not, Hoseok," while side-eyeing him sharply, "but that's easy to say when it's not your problem." The atmosphere in the room changes, taking on a type of hostility that's been growing more and more familiar to them these days.

Attempting to avoid the squabble that's surely about to ensue, he quickly finishes gathering his things, then stands and starts walking towards the exit.

"I'm the one who's, as we speak, being bombarded," Jin begins to argue, pulling out his phone to show the others how new email notifications are appearing, one after the other and without pause, on his screen, "by demands to know if their noble lineage has fallen out of His Royal Highness' favor."

As he's halfway out the door, he hears Hoseok reply back, "That one's not even-what is that a newsletter ?" He doesn't stick around to hear how the rest of their argument will surely devolve.

Thankfully, they don't follow after him right away and he uses this, and his speed, in order to leave them well behind. But then because of this effort, he finds that he has made his way to the northernmost wing of their premises very quickly and has to pause, because he hasn't yet thought through what he should do.

He standing there, hasn't yet arrived at a decision, when he hears that, in any case, the three he'd left behind are quickly catching up. And so with a sigh, he simply heads towards the study where he works, leaving its door open behind himself.

He's at his desk, putting away the documents from this evening's meeting, when they finally walk in. Immediately, something about their presence makes him confident that he knows how the rest of the night will likely play out. Sighing once, he forgoes taking a seat at his desk. Instead, he makes his way to the small lounge at the far side of his study.

Then, as he's making himself comfortable on one of the reading chairs, he notices that Hoseok is in front of the fireplace that the small lounge sits before, and that he's arranging firewood. Without thought, the words, "Leave it," slip from his mouth.

Surprised by the sudden command, Hoseok turns to look at him curiously, but then just nods once before sitting down at a reading chair opposite his.

He can't remember the last time that fireplace had held a fire, but he knows he doesn't want one now. They're not worth the effort, he thinks, especially because he's never felt that his study needed to be warm. And as for the light a fire might provide, well, there's already a lamp shining from atop his desk and he thinks that's enough.

He often forgets, though, that with their eyesight, it's easy not to realize when a room is dim.

Silently, a goblet of dark ruby is offered to him. For a moment, he simply stares at it, transfixed by the jewel-like glitter of the glass and blood as they reflect the somber, low light of the room. It's beautiful to look at, he thinks, without particularly wanting to accept it and then takes it anyway, because it's Yoongi who's offering it to him.

He doesn't think Yoongi would take his refusal too kindly at the moment.

He watches then as he returns to the small, fully stocked bar by his desk. There the man pours a set of drinks, three in total, and gives one to Jin and the other to Hoseok before finally taking a seat on a couch to his left.

It's quiet for a beat, then Yoongi clears his throat. "Jungkook," he says solemnly.

Jungkook looks at him.

"You appear to be neglecting your thirst," he notes, still in a solemn tone, then steals a glance at the crystal goblet in Jungkook's hand.

It's a strange thing to say to him, Jungkook thinks, given that none of them have even so much as sipped at their drinks either. He's about to point this out, but stops right before, thinking that it's probably more prudent to keep his quiet instead.

Keeping quiet and treading lightly is something he's begun to do as of late. It had originally started as a means of keeping the court's undue worry at bay, but then had quickly become all that he knew how to do anymore. And now he spends the majority of his time hiding behind silence, because it offers him the only peace of mind that he's been able to find.

Lately, however, he's begun to wonder how much longer he'll be granted this small reprieve. Because, when his court happens to be home to some of the sharpest eyes, he knows that there's only so much of himself that he can really hope to hide.

Wearily, he notes that there are three sets of eyes firmly and carefully trained on him. And suddenly, he's not so sure anymore that he really knows how the night is going to play out.

Jungkook looks at Yoongi and finally settles on how to respond. "You've hardly said a word all night and that's what your leading with?" he says, choosing to deflect, to which Yoongi, of course, doesn't reply.

Yoongi does, however, look pointedly at the untouched drink in Jungkook's hand. Then with a raised eyebrow, he meets the other's eyes once more. They stare each other down.

Jin decides to make a loud, but short noise of disgust then, causing Jungkook to quickly glance at him, only find that he's holding his glass out, as though offended by it.

Curious, Jungkook watches as Jin carefully wipes the corners of his lips and then as he turns to him with a frown. "Have you not taken a drink yet? Has no one taken a drink yet?" Jin says, first to him, then to the others. "This isn't the right temperature."

Hoseok hums and Jungkook looks at him next. He finds the other still has his eyes trained on him. "It's the bar's settings, they're finicky. I'm always having to reset the one like it in our quarters," Hoseok says lightly and then directs his gaze to the cold drink in his hand. He swirls the ruby liquid in his glass around a few times.

Jungkook grits his teeth, then sits up a little higher in his seat. "If that's the case, we should have someone come and take a look at them. Perhaps, there's a fix to this issue," he says, diplomatically, and then places his own drink onto the small table at his side.

Hoseok nods, whilst subtly sliding his eyes to the right so that he can share a brief look with Yoongi. Jungkook, who doesn't miss this silent exchange, grits his teeth again.

"There's no need, Jungkook. They work fine," Yoongi responds with a perfunctory tone. There's an indiscernible look on his face. "They're set to cool after being out of use for a set period of time, so as to preserve the blood longer."

Hoseok lets out a short 'oh' in response, as if he hadn't already known this, then says, "That makes sense. We're gone so often these days, our bar goes without use pretty regularly." He pauses to turn a confused, theatrical frown on Jin, then adds, "Well except for you Jin, you rarely leave."

Jungkook is staring blankly at Hoseok, whose attention is entirely on Jin as he asks, "Are you so busy with the council you forget to feed?" Their eyes are locked on each other's in a way Jungkook doesn't like.

"No, not at all," Jin responds and then breaks off eye contact with Hoseok. "I mean, not that I'm not busy, cause I am," he says with a half-hearted chuckle. Then, settling his eyes on Jungkook, he adds, "I feed regularly, I just don't use the one in our quarters."

Hoseok makes another little 'noise' of understanding.

Jin hums thoughtfully. "It's more practical to feed in my study," he says, "since I spend most of my time either there or with the council." His voice is placid.

Jungkook is on edge.

"Jungkook," Jin says then and Jungkook meets his eyes with a wooden stare. "You spend most of your time in this study, don't you? And you don't feed here?"

An incriminating silence fills the room. And as it stretches on, Jungkook begins to wonder who'll tire of this stupid game first.

It's Yoongi who finally drops the pretext. "We know you haven't been feeding," he says, speaking plainly for once. "Why?"

"Because, I haven't had much thirst recently," Jungkook responds, but does so too quickly, too forcefully, and it ends up making him sound defensive. Realizing this, he huffs out a breath and then pushes his tongue against the inside of his mouth in self-conscious habit.

Jungkook tries again. "I've been busy." And no sooner do these words escape him, that he realizes they're a weak excuse at best. Immediately, he regrets speaking altogether.

In seconds, the looks aimed in his direction all take on a hint of concern. And suddenly, as if pulled on by a string, Jungkook stands up and moves to the front of the fireplace, so that only his back has to face the others and that small glimmer of sadness that sits in the depths of their eyes.

His chest is tight. It feels like he can't breath.

Forcing himself to focus on the silent in and out of his lungs, he finds it's helpful to visually trace along the dark lines of wood that Hoseok was going to light earlier and so uses this to distract himself for some moments.

Idly, he places a hand over a brick of the hearth and finds that it's cold.

He's made aware again of the three still sat at the lounge behind him, when, for a moment, he thinks that they might be arguing. They're too quiet, though, so he isn't sure. But then someone lets out a quiet, angry hiss, and this further catches his attention. Curious of what's going on, he finally turns away from the dark, fireless pit.

The first thing he notices is that Yoongi has stood up from his seat and that his hands are fists at his side. And when Jungkook looks further, he sees something in the other's eyes that sends a chill down his spine.

"What is going on with you? " Yoongi asks, with a strong look of intolerance for any more bullshit.

Jungkook's ears ring harshly. Without thinking, he barks out, "Is there anything of actual importance that we needed to discuss?" His tone surprises a flinch out of Jin. "Or was it the plan to interrogate me with pointless questions all night?"

Yoongi takes the brunt of Jungkook's outburst like a stone, cool and unaffected, that is, except for his eyes, which harden as he steadily, relentlessly, looks at Jungkook in wait of a response.

And it's clear to Jungkook then, that the other is resolute, that Yoongi won't waver until his question has been satisfied.

"You're currently just wasting my time," Jungkook snaps and then adds, "Hoseok reported the only thing of import during tonight's meeting already, so if there's nothing more then-"

"There was one matter not reported on," Yoongi says interrupting him. Jin and Hoseok look between them in confusion. "It seemed important enough to you, earlier."

Jungkook freezes, realizing the mistake he's made.

"That didn't need to be discussed at the meeting," he says in a low, warning tone and Yoongi nods.

"I agree. But since you're asking-" Jungkook cuts him off.

"The particulars of that specific case can wait, you may write up a report and have it delivered to me at a later time," he says in frenzied, hasty dismissal, voice barely squeezing out past the sudden tightness of his throat.

Hoseok stands up from his seat in a slow, purposeful manner then. There's a deep crease between his brows. And for a moment, he looks slightly around himself, as if he's lost and trying to gain his bearings. Then he turns to face Yoongi and there's a question in his eyes, but it's clear that he won't be asking it any time soon, especially not at the present moment. "I'm leaving," he announces instead.

Yoongi frowns at him. "North?" he asks.

"No, to our quarters. I've work to do," Hoseok quickly replies and his eyes turn to look at Jungkook. He stares at him for a moment, then takes a deep, mocking bow. "Please excuse me, Your Majesty."

Jungkook clenches his teeth together, hard, and nods, but by then Hoseok is already gone.

"Perhaps, we should take our leave as well?" Jin says, moving to stand beside Yoongi. He places a hand on the other's shoulder.

Yoongi looks at Jin's hand and then at Jin. He nods.

"Then, please excuse us as well, Your Majesty," Jin says.

They leave with a little less hurry than Hoseok.

In the wake of their departure, a heavy quiet crashes over Jungkook like a wave. And as it floods his study, he takes it in with a deep breath. Because it's only drowning in silence, that he finds that he can really breathe anymore.

Back at their shared quarters, Jin sighs heavily. "So what? No one has anything to say?" he asks and Hoseok looks up only momentarily from his desk, before quickly returning to his work. Yoongi does nothing to acknowledge that he's even spoken.

Undeterred, Jin simply speaks louder. "Really? Nothing ? What about you Hoseok?" he asks, hoping to provoke the other. "Or was that dramatic exit just for show?"

Hoseok freezes over the document on his desk. He sighs and with a frown leans back into his chair. Then, visibly unimpressed, he crosses his arms over his chest and gives Jin a look. "You know damn well only one of us has anything that needs to be said," he says.

Yoongi's standing near a window. He's been rooted to that spot since coming back from Jungkook's study.

He's staring out into the night and now Jin and Hoseok are staring at him.

After a moment, Jin sighs again. "Is this the first time you've been ordered to keep secrets? Or just the first time we find out?" he asks.

Yoongi shifts on his feet, but doesn't answer right away.

"Discretion was implied, but…" he begins but then hesitates, while still looking out the window. He shifts again, as though trying balancing himself under the weight of something heavy.

"What happened earlier has made it clear he doesn't want us to know. It's more than simple discretion," Hoseok says, giving voice to what Yoongi has left unsaid.

"Yes and no," the other hedges. Hoseok scoffs in response.

Yoongi places his hands on the sill of the window before him and then hangs his head slightly. He lets out a sudden, low growl of frustration. "Or really, fuck if I know," he says, looking over his left shoulder at Hoseok.

Straightening up, Yoongi turns around to face the room. "Despite whatever was implied earlier, I was never explicitly told to keep anything a secret."

Hoseok laughs tiredly, then says, "Fine, so no one told you to keep a secret." He rolls his eyes. "Tell me, what do you call something you can't speak openly about?"

"He asked for a written report, Yoongi, because he wanted to shut you up," Jin adds. "How is that any different?"

"It isn't, not really," Yoongi replies, with some bite. "And that's the fucking issue!"

The room grows quiet.

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair. "What do I do? Because on one hand, he's clearly asked me to 'write up a report' and keep my mouth closed, but on the other hand, I'm also not formally under any obligation to keep information from any members of the court."

Neither Hoseok nor Jin have an answer for him.

"Fuck it," Yoongi says, coming to a decision. "Jimin and Namjoon already know, so what's two more," he adds in a grumble.

"Wow, you hear that Hoseok? We're the only ones who don't fucking know!"

"Relax," Yoongi says to Jin, "they know because they're the ones on the damn case." But his words do little to placate the other, who just impatiently gestures at him to get on with the explanation.

Yoongi rubs at his jaw with one hand. "Earlier this evening, Jungkook ordered Jimin to find…" He pauses. "A corpse. The corpse of a fledgling's kill, some human kid. That's what Jimin's looking for," he says, then adds, "Namjoon later joined up with him." His words are met with silence.

Hoseok's mouth drops open. "What the hell? " he says, mostly to himself.

Jin says nothing, but his sentiment is much the same.

"That's it, that's all," Yoongi says. "I know as much as you at this point."

"You can't be serious."

"I agree with Hoseok, what do you mean that's all you know?" Jin asks.

"That my only job was to relay the-" he's interrupted by a buzz from his pocket. Glancing between Jin and Hoseok, he quickly digs out his phone.

Only a handful of people have Yoongi's number and almost half of them are here.

He accepts the call, before it's even rang twice.

The line is silent.

"Well?" Yoongi asks, while staring down at Namjoon's name on the screen. He turns the phone, holding it out in front of him, so the others can see as well.

"It's done," Namjoon responds in a sigh, causing the line to crackle.

Yoongi nods to himself, glad that they can put it behind them now. And he's about to say as much, but Namjoon isn't finished speaking.

"But... there's been a complication of sorts," he says and then goes silent.

"...And? Hello, Namjoon?" Yoongi says irritably, after the silence stretches on for too long. He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Are you not going to say anything? What, am I just supposed to fucking guess what that means?"

To their collective surprise, someone else replies in Namjoon's stead. "Maybe he should guess, cause we sure as shit don't know," they say, voice carrying, but only just barely, over the line. The speaker's words had sounded muffled by distance and their own mumbled pronunciation, meaning that they likely hadn't intended to be heard.

It's quiet for a beat, then Jin snorts in amusement. And hearing this, Namjoon realizes that they've heard the churlish remark and so he spends a few moments shushing Jimin.

Then, though the other two become distracted by the small back and forth that develops between Namjoon and Jimin, Yoongi remains well aware of the fact that Namjoon has yet to explain his cryptic remark. And as more and more seconds drag on without any real answers, he begins to grow increasingly frustrated by the whole of their phone conversation. Fed up, he's about to re-ask Namjoon his question, demand that the other actually answer him, when, suddenly, a soft voice comes over the line.

The call is muted.

Yoongi blinks several times, then looks across the room to the other two in order to confirm that they'd all just heard the same thing. Wearing twin expression, Jin and Hoseok look back at him and then at each other. And then all three of them spend the next few moments playing a strange game of hot potato, where they toss around a uselessly confused look between them, as if by doing this, one of them might miraculously arrive at an answer.

They pretty quickly tire of this game.

"Namjoon what was that? Who was that?"

The line is unmuted. "Jin?" Namjoon asks. "Who's all there?"

"Me, Yoongi, and Hoseok," Jin responds.

"Good, ok."

Jin frowns. "Namjoon, what's going on?"

Namjoon's quiet for a beat. "I think it's best if you're patient," he says in a careful tone. Jin is about to protest, but he's cut off as Namjoon continues speaking, "We're headed your way now, ok? We'll be there in a couple hours."

"Hours? Wait, you're driving here?" Hoseok asks, shocked.

"Only because it was necessary," Namjoon responds, but doesn't elaborate, raising, yet again, even more questions. "Just, hold tight, ok?"

There's a long pause, during which Yoongi, Jin, and Hoseok share a look of uncertainty between them. Eventually, Jin says, "Ok." Namjoon hangs up.

And they wait.

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So? Any thoughts?

my twitter is negaverseBTS if you ever wanna chat (you can find my curiouscat there if you wanna ask anything about this story on anon)


	4. Chapter 4

Namjoon's brought out of thought, when a tall glass is placed before him. He looks at it. "Oh? We're using glassware now?" he says, wrapping a hand around the drink. "And warming it up too? _How fancy_."

Jimin sits down across from Namjoon and ignores his comment with a look. "Nam, did you even get a wink of sleep?"

"No, not really," Namjoon answers, then takes a sip of his drink.

Jimin nods his head a little. He hadn't gotten much sleep either. "I checked the Human news media already, there haven't been any reports on the corpse, so we're good to go as soon as you're ready," he says after a moment.

Namjoon looks up at Jimin. "Right, so about that," he begins and Jimin's eyes narrow on him.

" _What_ about it Namjoon?"

"That we need a change of plans." Jimin lets out a puff of air and leans back into his seat.

"And why do we need a change of-" Jimin pauses mid gripe, when the steady breath of someone sleeping seeps into his consciousness. "Oh," he says, sitting up.

"Right, you have a fledgling to raise," Jimin says, the corners of his lips inching upwards.

Namjoon rolls his eyes and looks away from the amused look on Jimin's face. "Shut up, Jimin. It's not like I'm his maker," he says. In a quieter tone, he adds, "Though, if I were, it'd definitely make this entire situation easier."

A small giggle escapes Jimin then. "You mean so that you'd have a larger blood volume, like his actual maker?" he jokes, teasing Namjoon. "Look at you, Joonie, stepping up to provide properly for a fledgling not your own. How sweet."

Namjoon turns a half-hearted glare on Jimin. "Yes, a larger blood volume would be nice, I guess," he says, "but I was mostly referring to his inability to consume Human blood, coupled with his inability to keep most of my blood down."

"To be honest, I'm not sure how much longer he'll survive at this rate," Namjoon adds in a murmur and then stands.

The small smile on Jimin's lips is gone. In its place sits a frown to match Namjoon's, who exits the kitchen without another word. Jimin follows after him.

They stand outside the fledgling's room for a beat, before Namjoon finally cracks open the door. He doesn't enter. "Taehyung?" he calls out.

Namjoon's too tall for Jimin to peer into the room without crowding against him.

Memories of the skittish fledgling prompt Namjoon to call out his name once more, before entering the room. Jimin follows after him, but then stops a few feet from the door.

Namjoon comes to a stop at the center of the room. Standing beside Taehyung's sleeping form, he looks down on the boy's peaceful face and sighs, unhappily, at having to wake him. "Taehyung," he says gently and places a hand over the boy's cheek. "Hey, wake up," he says a bit louder, tapping at his face with little slaps.

Taehyung draws his brows together, then shifts his face away from Namjoon's hand in annoyance. Namjoon smiles, but his words and gentle tapping don't desist until Taehyung's big big eyes finally flutter open and they look up at Namjoon as he stirs fully awake.

"Happy dusk," Namjoon says, staring down at him.

Taehyung blinks up at the other, confused. Then, before he can think on why the man's face is so familiar, his world spins and his eyes slips shut against it.

Namjoon, realizing his mistake, apologizes to Taehyung for sitting him up without warning. And concerned by the other's strong reaction, he asks him if he's alright, but Taehyung doesn't respond. His eyes just squeeze tightly together and then he clutches at the fabric of his shirt, right over the center of his chest.

Taehyung hiccups out a small sob.

"Does your chest burn?" Namjoon asks and Taehyung brings up another hand to clutch at his chest in response.

Nodding to himself, Namjoon begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. "Ok, right. That means you probably need more blood," he says. "Jimin, I need a knife," he adds, turning to look behind himself, "could you-" He stops at the look on the other's face.

Jimin is still standing near the door. He's silent and, in fact, hasn't spoken a word, Namjoon realizes, since they'd entered the room.

He's frozen, but deeply in thought, eyes fastened intensely on Taehyung's face.

"Jimin?" Namjoon says carefully, while eyeing the other's odd behavior, and Jimin's eyes tear away from Taehyung, as if startled out of a dream, to look at him. Namjoon frowns at Jimin in question, but then another small sob escapes Taehyung's lips and his attention is immediately redirected back to the fledgling.

Taehyung appears to be wilting, as he curls forward in pain. So taking hold of his shoulders, Namjoon lifts him upright, then sits down beside him so that the boy can curl into his side.

"Knife, now," Namjoon says and a moment later he's handed a knife. When he looks up in quick thanks, Jimin isn't looking at him. His eyes are trained on Taehyung again.

Namjoon glances down at the boy in his arms. And in that same moment, Taehyung's eyes flutter open, first to look up at him and then up at Jimin.

"What the fuck? _What the fuck_?!"

Taehyung flinches. His eyes close shut at Jimin's abrupt exclamations.

Namjoon frowns. "What is your problem?" he asks, but doesn't wait for a response, too busy cutting into his wrist, before quickly bringing it to Taehyung's lips.

Jimin stares, wide-eyed at Namjoon. And Namjoon looks back at him, exhausted by his strange behavior.

And it's in those few precious moments Namjoon wastes staring at Jimin, that Namjoon loses control of the situation. Because, though Taehyung isn't drinking anymore greedily than he'd done the morning prior, he's a lot stronger now than he'd been then and so each of his desperate pulls takes with it a lot more blood than Namjoon could have thought to anticipate.

" _Namjoon_?" Jimin's voice squeaks out, when Namjoon's eyes get a little glossy. "Hey, that's probably-" Namjoon slumps over slightly and the word 'enough' is left unsaid, as Jimin jumps into action.

Namjoon blacks out for a moment and when he comes to his head is swimming and he feels like a fool. It'd been his plan to avoid this exact situation and, yet, here he is. He's lucky that Jimin had been at his side, otherwise he'd likely be dead.

Namjoon's heaving harsh breaths in and out, but he's not receiving enough oxygen. His heart is beating in a panic, working desperately to move blood from his pulmonary circulation everywhere else, but he has so little left. And so to compensate his lungs begin to work harder, brining air, even more harshly, in and out of his body, but it makes little difference. His sight is going dark.

And even through that, Namjoon is aware of Taehyung whimpering. He listens with some concern as he then begins to throw up.

Well that's insult to injury, Namjoon thinks deliriously and he laughs a little.

Something dribbles down the side of his chin.

"Oh," Namjoon hums out, smiling sluggishly at nothing, and turns his head away from the firm press of Jimin's wrist against his mouth. "What? Am I suddenly a child?" he asks Jimin, slurring most of his words.

"Now's not the time to be embarrassed, Joonie. You've lost a lot of blood."

Namjoon blinks. He opens his mouth to argue, but his brain can't string together a response, so Jimin uses that opportunity to press his wrist against him again. And completely outwitted, Namjoon accepts his defeat and drinks, a sense of nostalgia coming over him like a blanket, as he does.

He hasn't drank from someone's wrist since he was a child, back when he depended on his parents for sustenance.

Namjoon takes from Jimin only just enough to bring him back from the brink of death. And despite his friend's protests, he's able to turn away from his wrist just long enough so that his cut heals closed.

Jimin huffs in irritation, but knowing how stubborn Namjoon can be, he doesn't reopen his veins. Instead he sits back on the floor, so that he's no longer kneeling in front of the other and then stares at him with a look of equal parts concern and annoyance.

Namjoon brings up the collar of his shirt to wipe at his red stained mouth. "Ugh, gross-you taste nothing like my mom," he says, partly in truth and partly as an attempt to reassure the other he's fine.

Jimin grunts, but then cracks a small smile. "Yea, let's not tell the court about this. We'll never live it down," he says and Namjoon hums lightly in agreement and then makes as though to stand.

" _What are you doing_?" Jimin asks harshly, while holding Namjoon down by a shoulder. The sound of quiet sobbing fills the space between them and Namjoon looks at Jimin incredulously.

Jimin blinks at him and a strangled noise slips out of the back of his throat. "Are you serious?" he asks, bug-eyed, as he turns behind him to look at the blood-covered mass on the bed.

"Jimin," Namjoon says wearily, "I think he needs more blood." Jimin whips around to meet his eyes, but doesn't say anything. Taehyung's still painfully sobbing.

"He wasn't like this the first time," Namjoon adds, glancing back at Taehyung's balled up form, "I could tell it wasn't enough, but it was enough to hold the pain at bay."

"What are you trying to say, Namjoon?"

Namjoon doesn't respond, the whimpers in the background continue. Jimin looks squarely at his friend and all he finds is a softness in his eyes that's incongruous with the bloody, messy scene before them.

And, again, Jimin is stumped by how a fledgling-no, how that _thing_ , could ever possibly inspire such a look in his friend's eyes.

Jimin doesn't understand. But Namjoon also doesn't know.

"Namjoon," Jimin says, almost a whisper, and Namjoon's eyebrows pull together strangely at what must be the look on his face.

"What?" Namjoon asks, tone apprehensive.

"That's it," Jimin says, as if it should be obvious to Namjoon what he means, but it's clear that he doesn't and so Jimin flings a wild look over to the whimpering mass on the bed, then back at Namjoon. "That's the corpse."

They're both quiet. Taehyung lets out a moan of pain.

"The corpse we were supposed to go looking for?" Namjoon asks, speech slow and clear. And Jimin wants to yell at him that he's not crazy, but instead he just nods.

Namjoon frowns. His eyes flicker between Jimin and the boy on the bed.

"What, you don't believe me?!"

"Jimin, it's not that I-"

"Nam, you're one of the smartest people I know," Jimin says, kneeling so he can grab a hold of Namjoon's shoulders. "I don't know what he is, but even I know that's not a normal fledgling," he says, pointing at the sobbing boy on the bed.

Namjoon looks between both of Jimin's eyes, wavering back and forth between the two. He blinks several times, then looks over at the bed again.

"Namjoon," Jimin says, not quite able to believe that he's attempting to make Namjoon, of all people, see reason. "Believe me, I _know_ that's the body of the boy who was attacked and killed by the fledgling I was hunting, the very same body that isn't lying in its grave anymore."

"I was given several pictures of him," Jimin says. "His hair is different, but I know it's him!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes. His features," Jimin says, as they both turn to look at Taehyung, "they're hard to mistake."

They're quiet for a moment.

"He's not Kim descended. Kim is his Human surname," Namjoon says, murmuring mostly to himself. Jimin nods anyway, though he doesn't turn to look at the other, too busy still looking at Taehyung.

"Fledglings can't make other fledglings," Namjoon adds a little later, quieter and voice speculative, "and no fledgling survives consuming blood that wasn't involved in its creation."

Jimin turns to look at Namjoon then and startles when the other returns his gaze just as suddenly.

"Jimin," Namjoon says, serious. "Jimin, he _needs_ blood or he'll die."

" _What_?! Did you-"

"I did," Namjoon says, cutting Jimin off. "I heard you, heard everything you had to say."

"I don't understand then," Jimin responds.

Namjoon sighs. "I don't either, not really, but I think his existence isn't a coincidence." He pauses. "I think we need to keep him alive."

Then in a quiet voice, he adds, "I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think it was important."

They share a very long, unwavering look. Until finally Jimin sighs, looks down to his left for a moment and then stands.

Jimin hesitates only momentarily, before quickly making his way to the bed. Then climbing on top, he crawls towards the dark pool of burgundy where the boy that should be dead lies writhing. There, he sits down beside him and places the boy's head on top of his lap.

"Jimin," Namjoon calls suddenly and Jimin glances up to look at him. "You need to be the one in control, because he lacks any," Namjoon says, looking briefly down at Jimin's lap. "I wasn't careful enough, if it weren't for you I'd be dead."

Jimin looks at his friend's worried face and nods. Then he takes a steadying breath and brings a knife across his wrist again. The slice of blade is immediately followed by the spill of blood, but even so, Jimin only just blinks at the sight of crimson on his skin, before his wrist is pulled away from him.

He looks down, wide-eyed, at the boy latched onto him.

The swell of his throat, as he works blood down into his belly, immediately captures Jimin's eye, engrossing him completely. And, strangely, this sight fills him with a sudden kindness for the boy. He spends some time just looking at him drink.

Someone is speaking.

"What did I _just_ say?! _Jimin_!"

Jimin looks up from the boy he's feeding and his vision swims.

"That's enough!"

Enough? Yea, it's probably enough, Jimin thinks. At least, Namjoon had just said as much-hadn't he? In any case, he's sure it should be enough. Or probably is or was enough. Or something.

What was enough though?

Jimin lets out a warbled giggle and gives up on trying to think. Then his stomach swoops, as the room blurs and rushes past him. The boy quickly follows after him, climbing partially over his supine body so as to continue drinking from his wrist. And Jimin, feeling cold, just curls around his warmth, while taking care to not dislodge him.

Oh, right, Jimin thinks and begins pushing at the boy's face.

Jimin quickly realizes that he isn't strong enough to stop the other, but nevertheless, he doesn't stop fighting until the strength in his arm leaves him.

His hand lands with a muted thump atop the mattress.

He stares up at the swirling patterns on the ceiling and wonders how he'd never noticed them before.

Jimin. Jimin. _Jimin_!

Movement to his right catches his attention.

"Oh, hey Joonie," Jimin croaks out, as he squints at the image of two overlapping Namjoons.

"I-I tried to get to you, but," Namjoon says, panting, "ahh-but, I didn't make it far." He's on one knee, a few feet from the bed. He takes a moment to catch his breath. "I thought you wouldn't be able to stop him," he says after a moment.

"Hmm? What're you talking about?" Jimin says, frowning at the blurry image of Namjoon. "I'm fine and the dead boy is fine and we're friends now," he adds, mumbling. "Tell him how we're friends now, dead boy." The boy is laying, collapsed, still partly on top of him.

Taehyung spits up a mouthful of blood on Jimin's chest.

"Yea, you tell him buddy," Jimin breathes out, as the other begins to heave. "You see this Joonie? He likes me better, cause he's not even puking that much."

Jimin manages to mumble a handful of incoherencies, before finally passing out. When he comes to, he finds that Namjoon is sat on the bed beside him. The boy is lying next to him, fast asleep.

"You need to drink," Namjoon says and Jimin immediately begins to protest. "Relax, you drank a little from me already-entirely unconscious might I add. I couldn't give you much, though, so here," he says, holding out a glass of blood for Jimin to see.

"Besides, I've given more blood in 24 hours than I have in my whole life, I wasn't offering to do so again," Namjoon adds with a smirk.

Jimin snorts and with Namjoon's help sits up. Then he swallows down the blood he's handed in one go and releases a long, satisfied breath afterwards. After a moment, he sighs out, "This is a fucking mess, literally and figuratively."

Namjoon grunts in agreement, watching as Jimin frowns down at the tacky mess of blood on his chest. "We don't have a lot of time, but the least we can do is clean ourselves up," he says, as he looks at the blood caking Taehyung's hair. "There's a car stashed in a parking garage not far from here," he says, picking up Taehyung's limp body. "Let's hurry."

Jimin groans. He hates cars.

Later, when Taehyung's steady breath and the noise of the highway, are the only things to fill the quiet, Jimin asks, "What are we going to tell them?"

Namjoon glances at him, then returns his eyes to the road. His hand tightens over the steering wheel. "The truth," he says.

Jimin hums. Out of the passenger window, he watches as the world slowly rolls by.

"It'll be some hours before we're home," Namjoon says after a moment and Jimin hums again.

After some thought, Jimin sighs. "Namjoon," he says, turning to look behind his seat, "we should probably let them know we have company."

Taehyung's head is resting against the window. The puff of his breath is periodically fogging the cold glass near him.

Jimin is still staring at Taehyung when he hears a dial tone fill the car.

"Well?" Yoongi's harsh voice makes both Jimin and Namjoon jump in surprise. Neither had realized the other had answered already.

Namjoon responds, "It's done." He pauses and Jimin turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. They share a quick look, before Namjoon adds, "But... there's been a complication of sorts."

Well, that's one way of putting it, Jimin thinks.

"...And? Hello, Namjoon?" Yoongi says. He sounds irritated. "Are you not going to say anything? What, am I just supposed to fucking guess what that means?"

"Maybe he _should_ guess, cause we sure as shit don't know," Jimin says, before he can think better of it. Someone on the other end of the line snorts in response and Namjoon gives him a look.

"Jimin, _please_ ," Namjoon whispers at him. "This isn't the time for jokes. We need their help and cooperation." Jimin nods, mouthing 'ok', but it only prompts Namjoon to explain the seriousness of their situation further.

Jimin raises his hands, palms forward in a placating gesture. 'Ok, ok' he mouths at Namjoon again. Namjoon gives him a look. "Jimin I'm serious-"

A nearly silent, sudden gasp from the backseat interrupts their back and forth. "Where-" Taehyung says in a soft voice. Namjoon's eyes bulge, then he lets go of the wheel for an instant, so as to mute the call.

Taehyung's eyes are wide, he looks lost. "Taehyung," Namjoon says, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, "you're safe, I promise." Taehyung's expression doesn't change.

Jimin turns to look towards the back and catches Taehyung's attention. They share a look, and without thinking, Jimin smiles as warmly as he can manage. Taehyung eases a little in response.

"Namjoon what was that? _Who_ was that?" Surprised to hear Jin's voice, Jimin looks away from Taehyung to stare at the phone in Namjoon's hand.

"Taehyung?" Namjoon calls to the other, meeting his gaze through the mirror again, "we'll explain later, but for now, could you please stay silent?"

Taehyung nods, somewhat reluctantly. Then he turns to look out his window with a frown.

Namjoon sighs, then unmutes the call. "Jin?" he asks. "Who's all there?"

"Me, Yoongi, and Hoseok," Jin responds.

"Good, ok," Namjoon says, nodding.

"Namjoon, what's going on?" Jin's voice is laced with worry.

Jimin is looking at Namjoon curiously. What _is_ going on, he thinks.

Namjoon frowns, hand on the steering wheel lightly clenching and unclenching. "I think it's best if you're patient," he says after a moment. Jin begins to say something, but he cuts the other off, "We're headed your way now, ok? We'll be there in a couple hours."

Hoseok says something then, but Namjoon just gives another non-answer. He asks for their patience once more, then hangs up.

"You didn't tell them we had company."

"We'll handle it in person."

No one says anything for the remainder of the ride.

Consumed by a fierce pain and need to vomit, he hadn't exactly been able to fully appreciate Jimin's first impression of him, though he knew it hadn't been a particularly good one.

Taehyung wonders if it'd been anything like any one of the harsh looks of scrutiny that are boring into him from three different directions currently.

Jimin places a hand on his left shoulder and Taehyung visibly jumps. He recovers quickly, tries to pretend as though he hadn't been surprised. Neither Namjoon nor Jimin comment.

"So…remember I said there had been a complication of sorts?" Namjoon says, breaking the silence.

A man, whose sharp gaze threatens to actually cut into Taehyung, grunts and then levels a weary look up at Namjoon who's carrying him in his arms.

Earlier, when they had finally arrived to an isolated cluster of buildings, Namjoon had politely informed Taehyung that he'd be carrying him inside. Then, before Taehyung could so much as protest, he'd been scooped up into a rush of wind and moving, by far, a lot faster than he'd imagined was possible.

And though they aren't moving anymore, Taehyung's still in Namjoon's arms. This makes him uncomfortable, because he's pretty sure that, at the very least, he's capable of standing on his own. And standing on his own two feet, he thinks, might help mitigate some of the discomfort he feels from the way the three men they came to meet are staring at him.

To Taehyung's immense relief, Jimin somehow seems to sense all of this and so quietly directs Namjoon into setting him down on the end of a brown leather couch.

"Namjoon… _What the fuck_ ," the man who'd grunted says. Jimin snorts, seeming to find the other's reaction particularly funny.

"Yea, uh, he seems to get that reaction," Namjoon replies with a sigh, as he sits down next to Taehyung. Jimin moves to stand on his other side, then places a hand on top of the couch, directly behind his head.

Taehyung isn't sure if they're aware that they're bracketing him on each side. It isn't unpleasant, but he does feels a little caged in by them.

The man who'd spoken earlier is frowning. He looks alternatively between Namjoon and Jimin for a moment. Then he turns his eyes on Taehyung and Namjoon moves unconsciously forward in his seat and places a hand on Taehyung's knee.

The man arches a brow, narrowing his eyes further on Taehyung.

Well, Taehyung thinks, Jimin and Namjoon may not be consciously aware of their body language, but the man before him sure as hell is.

"Hoseok?" one of the men says, while glancing, presumably at the man in question. The man, Hoseok, just shakes his head without looking at the other, his eyes glued on Taehyung.

"Jin-" Namjoon says in a careful tone, but the other doesn't allow him to finish.

"What," he says, face set with a heavy severity, "is going on? What don't Hoseok and I know?"

Namjoon takes a breath, as though to answer. "Ah-"

"What made you think it'd be a good idea to bring… this, whatever he is, here?" says the only man who's yet to be addressed by name.

Something about those words, their implication, make Taehyung's stomach sink.

He's not Human, but these people aren't either-and yet, even they look at him as an aberration of nature.

Someone squeezes his shoulder. Taehyung turns to look at Jimin, who, with another squeeze, smiles gently at him.

"...Whatever he is?" says the man who'd been addressed as Hoseok, speaking up for the first time. His brows are furrowed. He looks upset. "Yoongi, you said, you told us-fuck!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration. He takes a breath, then adds, "you _said_ , you had told us everything that you knew." It's an accusation.

The man who'd questioned Taehyung's presence, Yoongi, turns to look at Hoseok with a tense jaw and an angry retort on the tip of his tongue, one to match the tilt of Hoseok's chin. And in the instant before anything's said, Taehyung is filled with the terrible sense that he's somehow at fault.

"My name," Taehyung suddenly blurts out, too loud to take back. Five pairs of eyes turn to stare at him at once and Taehyung, shocked by his own impulsivity, freezes in slight horror.

He clears his throat once, then twice. "My name is Taehyung," he says after a moment. The words aloud are softer, hold less conviction than they had in his head.

Yoongi scoffs, no longer interested in fighting. "This, _Taehyung_ ," he says to Hoseok instead, tone derisive, "carries the face of the corpse we spoke about earlier."

Hoseok frowns at Yoongi then turns to look at Namjoon.

"He's one and the same," Namjoon confirms.

"Explain."

Namjoon sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. He looks at Jimin for a moment, then looks at the other three. "I'm sorry," he says.

Jin, Taehyung notes, seems to catch something the others miss in Namjoon's expression, because he says, "You don't _understand_ , but you're still thinking _something_." Then straightening so he stands taller, he crosses his arms over his chest and adds, "Now, tell us."

Namjoon looks at Jin and they share a long look. He huffs out a large breath. "Fine, but look, I've suspended a lot of logic, based most of my thinking on numerous assumptions, so it's all speculation," he says, speaking quickly. "But then, we met Taehyung-I looked at it from all sides, and still, somehow, his inclusion in this _fits_ -or could anyway."

"Namjoon, _what_ are you trying to fucking say?" Yoongi says, cutting of Namjoon as he starts to ramble. The expression on Hoseok's face mirrors this sentiment, while Jin looks thoughtful.

Namjoon breathes out through his nose. " _Nothing_ , right now-except that everything that was strange before, isn't so entirely strange anymore, not with the way things had been, where they're likely headed…"

Namjoon's words fade into an ominous hush.

Quiety, but matter-of-fact, Jin asks, "Where _are_ things headed, Namjoon?"

Namjoon breathes in then out. "An extinction event, I think," he responds and they all turn to look at each other, but no one says a word.

"Jungkook," Namjoon says, breaking the silence after a moment, "I think Jungkook knows this, at least, on some level, instinctively senses it."

"And Taehyung, how does he fit?" Jimin asks, bringing the room's attention back onto Taehyung.

Namjoon doesn't answer right away. He stares at Taehyung's profile and carefully considers how to phrase himself. "It's impossible for me to say, because it's largely dependent."

Jin sighs heavily, as he drops onto a couch across from them. He gives Namjoon a look. "I really hate how rigorous your thought process can get. Why don't you just pick one of your wild theories and we'll all just run with it?" Hoseok snorts and takes a seat as well.

Namjoon ignores Jin's comment, turning to look at Yoongi instead. "Do we have the Yeun fledgling file?" he asks him.

Yoongi nods, but his eyebrows furrow up in confusion. Then he goes to one of several filing cabinets in the large room and searches for a file to hand to Namjoon.

Namjoon thanks Yoongi, then takes a moment to rifle through the papers within, before finally pulling out a document. Paper clipped to this document is a picture.

Taehyung suddenly feels faint.

"Taehyung?" Namjoon asks. He's looking at him with worry.

"Yes?" Taehyung whispers. Namjoon's frown deepens.

"Do you know this person?" he asks, referring to the man in the picture. Taehyung nods stiffly.

"How?" Yoongi asks, voice sharp, startling Taehyung. Jimin turns an annoyed look in his direction, which Yoongi ignores.

"He attacked me," Taehyung says, glancing between the picture and Namjoon's face. He takes a breath, but it's shallow, chest too tight to breath properly. Nevertheless, he continues speaking. "I was walking home from the library. It was-it was late, I was working on a paper. It was the end of the semester and between that and my job, I had so much-"

"The attack, Taehyung," Hoseok states firmly, redirecting Taehyung's attention back onto what's more pertinent for them to know. But then Taehyung looks at him, round eyes full of fear, and for a moment Hoseok considers backtracking. He doesn't, but his voice is considerably softer when he asks, "How? What happened?"

Yoongi gives him a side-eyed look. Hoseok ignores it.

Taehyung's sitting very still. Inside his head resound the echoes of a night that seemed to have happened ages ago, in a different lifetime. Their sound makes his other senses dull and, in turn, his perception begins to cave in, until it's reduced to little more than the tightness in his chest and the shrill ringing of someone calling for help. His skin crawls with the feeling of several hands on him.

But when he finally manages to take in a deep breath, he realizes there's only a single hand rubbing small circles on his back. It takes him a moment to realize that it's Jimin, who's somehow wedged himself into the space between him and the armrest.

"Taehyung? Hey, you're ok," Namjoon says, still sitting on his other side. His voice is calm and reassuring. It quickly settles something in Taehyung's heart, as though it trusts Namjoon's words without question.

"Taehyung that night, what happened to you, was it like…like what Jimin and I have done for you?" Namjoon asks, after a moment and Taehyung closes his eyes at the question.

He's done everything in his power to avoid thinking about what he's done to Jimin and Namjoon, and has tried harder yet, to overlook the parallels between his savage, uncontrolled actions and what had happened on that cursed night.

Taehyung feels sick to his stomach. He nods once.

" _Namjoon_ ," someone says, but Namjoon just shakes his head and waves them off.

Then Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. "Taehyung, he was," he starts, but then pauses. " _You_ ," he says turning to Taehyung, "you were attacked eleven nights ago by a fledgling, a hybrid creature born from gifting a chosen human vampire blood."

"Like any hybrid-or crossbreed-fledglings are sterile. They're a biological dead end. They have no life to offer," Namjoon adds, explaining everything in a careful tone.

Namjoon pauses. He waits until Taehyung turns to meet his eyes and only until they're holding each other's gaze, does he add, "What befell on you that night has happened to many others before, but their stories all share the same ending."

The others are quiet and when Namjoon pauses, hesitating over his next words, the room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

"Death," Yoongi says, having little patience for Namjoon's philosophical, drawn out method of arriving at a point. "Humans die at the bloody mercy of those overgrown, weak-willed pseudo-vampire progeny all the time."

Jimin gives him a harsh look for his blunt words. Yoongi ignores it. "Namjoon, none of what you've said explains _this_ ," he says, gesturing at Taehyung. It earns another harsh look from Jimin, as well as, one from Hoseok this time. Yoongi's brows raise up high on his forehead. He looks at them both, but stares the longest at Hoseok, unable to ignore his strange response.

Huffing, Yoongi rephrases himself, "That doesn't explain _Taehyung._ What has he become and how?"

Taehyung blinks several times, then turns his eyes on Namjoon in question.

"That I don't know-yet. And truthfully, there's a very real possibility I, _we_ , may never know," Namjoon says and Jimin groans.

"What's wrong with him?" Hoseok suddenly asks, while looking at Taehyung.

Taehyung's confused until Jimin places a hand over his own and he realizes he's clutching at his shirt.

"You're in pain again?" Jimin asks.

Taehyung's heart fills with dread.

Not again, he thinks.

Taehyung puts his hands in his lap. "No, no, I'm not," he lies, making Jimin frown. He shares a look with Namjoon and Taehyung adds, more emphatically, "I'm fine, really."

But judging by the way they turn to look at him, Taehyung knows he isn't making a strong case for himself. He keeps trying anyway, because the last thing he wants is a repeat of what had happened before.

He shudders in memory. The feel of Jimin's hand as it had pushed weakly at him, ghosts along his temple, reminding him how he had wished it could push him away harder, while also finding the resistance a nuisance.

It had taken everything within him to stop.

A small miracle had saved Jimin's life and Taehyung isn't willing to bet that another might happen again.

"I'm fine," he repeats, even as the pain in his chest flares in protest.

Jimin stands. "I can give-"

"No," Namjoon says with finality. Jimin makes a loud noise of protest, but he doesn't argue.

Namjoon turns a difficult expression on the others and Taehyung's heart is suddenly in his throat.

"Is it feeding time?" Jin asks, his sarcasm somehow making the question all the more serious.

Taehyung feels Namjoon turn to look at him, as if waiting for his response. But Taehyung can't think much beyond the pain in his chest, which has doubled at the promise of a meal.

Jin hums thoughtfully. He looks at the back of his hand and picks at one of his nails, then flips his palm over, so that he can study his wrist. "I'm gonna take that as a yes," he says and stands up.

"You _can't_ be serious," Yoongi says, just as Jin takes a step towards Taehyung. Jin stops to look at him with a raised brow.

Yoongi huffs, shakes his head. "You two, you _really_ fed him?" he says, turning to look at Jimin and Namjoon. They nod.

"But the way we did it," Namjoon says, glancing at Jimin, "we can't do it like we did before." He pauses. "Jin, I'm glad you're willing to help, but it can't just be you," he says.

When Jin cocks his head at him, Namjoon explains, "The amount of blood Taehyung seems to need is a lot more than what a fledgling normally takes from their maker. This on its own can be dangerous, but coupled with the fact that he feeds at roughly the same frequency that a young child does, there's little room for mistake." Namjoon pauses and looks at Taehyung. "To be clear, Taehyung isn't a child, but it appears that metabolically, he _is_ a growing vampire."

"So we need to plan accordingly, is what you're saying," Jin says. Namjoon nods.

Taehyung's shoulders curve inwards with a sudden embarrassment. He doesn't have a metric by which to measure his need for blood relative to others, but Namjoon's words somehow make him feel like a glutton regardless.

Huh, Taehyung thinks. A glutton amongst vampires, only he could be so abnormal.

His human life had been difficult and marked by an inability to find meaningful harmony with others. His mind and heart had either been too hot or too cold, too deep or too shallow, to find a common ground with the people in his life. And so standing forever incongruent to what he should have felt, he had always wondered if there was something wrong with him.

Now he knows.

"So then, what do you suggest?" Hoseok asks Namjoon, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

"We-well you three, should each feed Taehyung right now. Jimin and I will sit this one out," Namjoon says, while placing a warm hand on Taehyung's back. "It's best if no individual person loses too much blood."

"I'm-I'm fine, _really_ ," Taehyung stutters out, white-knuckled hand on his chest again. But his words do little to deter Jin, who simply moves to kneel before him.

Taehyung attempts to lean back in his seat, to create some space between him and Jin, but Namjoon's hand keeps him in place. Then Hoseok comes to kneel at Jin's side and in his hand is a letter opener. Yoongi moves to stand a little ways behind the two, watching quietly. There's a curiosity in his eyes that he does a bad job of hiding.

Then suddenly, Jin takes the letter opener to his wrist and Taehyung immediately forgets what he'd been so cared of.

He isn't sure whether Jin's wrist moves towards him or he moves towards the wrist.

He gets lost again in the experience of sweet warmth as it fills him and the craving for which only grows as he drinks mouthful after mouthful, as though it's his fate to remain perpetually unsatisfied. He takes long, hard drags from Jin's wrist.

A wild cry escapes him, when several hands suddenly pull him off of the crimson river he's attempting to drown in. He fights these hands ferociously, until one of them roughly turns his head, directing him towards his next victim. He calms immediately.

After a few mouthfuls from Hoseok's wrist, Taehyung idly notes that he tastes different from Jin. And after a few more, Hoseok tries to pull away from him and so, with a growl, he grips harder onto his arm in response. Soon though, the hands are back to pull him off. He goes with them a little easier this time.

Taehyung's chest doesn't hurt as much anymore, but he's far from done. He wants more. However, the hands are holding him back. And when he goes to seek the steady pulses he can feel around him, they restrain his head and he yells.

He thinks it's unfair that they would deny him more blood and so he tries to tell them as much, but the words he cries out aren't really words at all.

"Stop with your whining, I'm going," Yoongi says, before placing his oozing wrist at Taehyung's lips and Taehyung practically sighs into it.

Taehyung will find time to be embarrassed about his behavior later. Right now he's too busy marvelling at how each of their blood can sit so differently on his tongue. He'd been too desperate to notice this with Namjoon and Jimin before. But now, with some of the edge taken off, he's realizing that he's able to pick up on the notes that are unique to an individual person.

Overall, he would say that the differences between two people's blood aren't really that great. However, though the notes that set them apart are subtle, they are nonetheless there. Hoseok's blood, for example, had tasted bright and faintly citrusy, with a sharp, but not unpleasant, robustness to it. Yoongi's blood on the other hand, Taehyung muses, as he pulls more of it into his mouth, is smoky and somewhat heavy, but still lightly, delicately, sweet.

Taehyung's drinking slows. He's sluggishly swallowing from Yoongi's wrist now, more interested in investigating the taste of it than continue gorging himself. But even still, when Yoongi pulls away, it isn't entirely without a fight.

Afterwards, he sits, panting, and waits for the inevitable. Namjoon and Jimin watch him carefully, likely also expecting him to throw up at any moment. But then, minutes pass and he doesn't.

The room is quiet except for the in and out of his breath.

"Should I... inform Jungkook?" Jimin says after a moment, in such a way that makes it's clear he'd rather not.

Namjoon shakes his head. "No, I will," he says. Jimin lets out a small, relieved sigh.

Yoongi clear his throat. There's a light blush on his face. He's looking at no one, nothing in particular. "I'll go with you," he says. And though no one says anything, he quickly adds, somewhat flustered, "What? We're all responsible for him now, right?"

One by one they turn considering looks on Taehyung and he blushes. Jimin attempts to stifle a giggle, but fails.

Jin turns a wry look on Yoongi. "He's not suddenly our child, just because we shared blood with him," he says.

Yoongi rolls his eyes at Jin's comment, as though it's too stupid to merit a response. His blush darkens, though, and Jin snorts out a laugh.

Namjoon's frowning in Yoongi's direction and when the other turns to meet his gaze, he asks, "Is it a good idea? For you to come with me?" Yoongi immediately prickles up at the question, but before he can say anything, Namjoon adds, "I won't stop you. But will you behave?"

Yoongi's eyes narrow and he throws Jimin a quick, accusatory look, before he responds. "I can _behave_ ," he replies. His eyes shift over to Taehyung, who sits quietly glancing between all of them, watching, observing.

Yoongi huffs out a loud breath, then crosses his arms. "You are a freak of nature kid," he says to Taehyung, who blinks at him in surprise, before his eyes narrow in offense. Yoongi holds the other's offended gaze without hesitation.

Taehyung notes that there isn't anything unkind about the other's eyes, as he looks back at him.

Yoongi sighs and looks around at the others. "Can anyone say with any certainty what Jungkook's reaction to… Taehyung will be?" No one responds. Yoongi looks back at Namjoon. "Given his current… unpredictable nature, I'd imagine you'd want someone who isn't afraid to take a hard stance where it's needed."

Namjoon considers Yoongi for a moment, then he nods. "Alright, let's go," he says and stands, but immediately hesitates.

"He's up," Jin says, guessing at Namjoon's hesitation. "I can't imagine he's gone to sleep yet."

"But, it's midday," Jimin says with a frown. Namjoon glances at him, then at Jin.

Jin shrugs. "He doesn't sleep much, as of late."

" _We're_ still up," Hoseok adds with a shrug.

Namjoon nods and then checks to see if Yoongi's similarly ready and finds that the other is actually waiting on him and so hurries to his side.

"And Taehyung?" Yoongi asks, falling in step with Namjoon as they head towards the door.

Namjoon shakes his head. "He should wait here," he says, glancing over his shoulder at Taehyung. He sighs. "You're right, we don't know how he'll react." He stops walking, brows furrowing in concern. "And… I'd like to avoid, if at all possible, putting Taehyung under anymore stress."

Yoongi stops beside him. He turns back towards Taehyung and watches as Jimin attempts to coax him into conversation.

He stands quietly for a moment and wonders why Namjoon would want to avoid distressing Taehyung any further. But the truth is, however, that part of him might already understand the 'why'. And as he watches Jin and Hoseok join Jimin's efforts, how they move to sit around him and how Taehyung responds to their actions by mellowing, no longer quite as skittish as he'd been when he'd first entered the room, Yoongi snorts in realization, because there's no denying that he knows the 'why'. What he truthfully doesn't understand is how it is that they all suddenly feel this 'why' for Taeghyung to begin with.

Namjoon, busy staring at the same scene, turns to look at him when he snorts. Yoongi waves him off. "Yea, I'd rather...avoid that as well," he just says, then shoves lightly at Namjoon's shoulder to get him moving.

They exit their quarters to make their way to Jungkook's study.

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

Let me know what you think! as always, i'm negaverseBTS on twitter if you wanna chat. i have a curiouscat too, which you can find on my twitter profile if you want.


	5. Notice

I apologize, but i will no longer publish this story on fanfictionnet. If you would like to continue reading, new chapters can be found on archive of our own, my username there is stofferz and this story has been posted under the same name i used here.

I hope to hear from you there (づ￣ ³￣)づ


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